Studies in Christianity and Judaism / Etudes sur Ie christianisme et Ie judai"sme Studies in Christianity and Judaism / Etudes sur Ie christi anisme et Ie judalsme publishes monographs on Christianity and Judaism in the last two centuries before the common era and the first six centuries of the common era, with a special interest in studies of their interrelationship or the cultural and social context in which they developed.
GENERAL EDITOR: Peter Richardson
University of Toronto
EDITORIAL BOARD: Paula Fredriksen
John Gager Olivette Genest Paul-Hubert Poirier Adele Reinhartz Stephen G. Wilson
Boston University Princeton University Universite de Montreal Universite Laval McMaster University Carleton University
Studies in Christianity and Judaism / Etudes sur Ie christianisme et Ie judalsme: 9 ~
STUDIES IN CHRISTIANITY AND JUDAISM / ETUDES SUR LE CHRISTIANISME ET LE JUDAISME Number 9
TEXT AND ARTIFACT IN THE RELIGIONS OF MEDITERRANEAN ANTIQUITY ESSAYS IN HONOUR OF PETER RICHARDSON Edited by Stephen G. Wilson and Michel Desjardins
Published for the Canadian Corporation for Studies in Religion / Corporation Canadienne des Sciences Religieuses by Wilfrid Laurier University Press
We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program for our publishing activities.
Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data Main entry under title: Text and artifact in the religions of Mediterranean antiquity: essays in honour of Peter Richardson (Studies in Christianity and Judaism", Etudes sur Ie christianisme et Ie judaYsme ESCJ ; v. 9) Includes bibliographical references and indexes. ISBN 0-88920-356-3 1. Bible. N.T. - History of contemporary events. 2. Bible. N.T. - History of Biblical events. 3. Church history - Primitive and early church, ca. 30-600. 4. Bible. N.T.Criticism, interpretation, etc. 5. Judaism - History - Post-exilic period, 586 B.C.A.D. 210 6. Jews in the New Testament. I. Wilson, Stephen G. II. Desjardins, Michel Robert, 1951- . III. Richardson, Peter, 1935- . IV. Canadian Corporation for Studies in Religion. V. Series.
BS241O.T49 2000
225.9'5
COO-930959-4
Printed in Canada
© 2000 Canadian Corporation for Studies in Religion / Corporation Canadienne des Sciences Religieuses Cover design by Leslie Macredie. Front cover photograph by Graydon Snyder is the arch before the apse of Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome. Floral motifs used for the back cover and section divisions are from the Eastern Gate of the Temple of Jupiter in Damascus. Photographs compliments of Silke Force.
Text and Artifact in the Religions of Mediterranean Antiquity has been produced from a manuscript supplied in camera-ready form hy the editors. All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyrights hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means-graphic, electronic or mechanical-without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recDrding, taping or reproducing in information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be diJected in writing to the Canadian Reprography Collective, 214 King Street West, Suite 312, Toronto, Ontario M5H 3S6. Order from:
Wilfrid Laurier University Press Wilfrid Laurier University Waterloo, Ontario, Canada N2L 3C5
CONTENTS
Preface .................................................... xi Partners in Publication . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. xiii Contributors ................................................ xv
Part One Peter Richardson: Writer and Teacher
1.
Giving to Peter What Has Belonged to Paul .................... 3 MICHEL DESJARDINS
2.
The Professor's House .................................... 31 LAURENCE BROADHURST
Part Two Text and Artifact in the New Testament World
3.
Reading the Text and Digging the Past: The First Audience of Romans ., ........................... , 35 LLOYD GASTON
4.
Peter in the Middle: Galatians 2:11-21 ....................... 45 L. ANN JERVIS
5.
Phoebe, the Servant-Benefactor and Gospel Traditions .......... 63 ROMAN GARRISON
6.
Paul and the Caravanners: A Proposal on the Mode of "Passing Through Mysia" ............ 74 ROBERT JEWETT
viii
7.
TEXT-AND ARTIFACT
Benefaction Gone Wrong: The "Sin" of Ananias and Sapphira in Context ................. 91 RICHARD S. ASCOUGH
8.
Isaiah 5: 1-7) the Parable of the Tenants and Vineyard Leases on Papyrus ........................... 111 JOHN S. KLOPPENBORG VERBIN
9.
The Parable of the Tenants and the Class Consciousness of the Peasantry ................. 135 WILLIAM E. ARNAL
10. Placing Jesus of Nazareth: Toward a Theory of Place in the Study of the Historical Jesus .... 158 HALVOR MOXNES
11. Irony, Text and Artifact: Cross and Superscription in the Passion Narratives ............. 176 PAUL W. GOOCH
12. On the Relation of Text and Artifact: Some Cautionary Tales ................................... 192 JAMES D. G. DUNN
Part Three Text and Artifact in the World of Christian Origins
13. Physiotherapy of Femininity in the Acts of Theda .............. 209 WILLI BRAUN
14. Sex and the Single God: Celibacy as Social Deviancy in the Roman Period .............. 231 CALVIN J. ROETZEL
15. "Good Luck on Your Resurrection"; Beth She'arim and Paul on the Resurrection of the Dead ........ 249 RICHARD N. LONGENECKER
CONTENTS
ix
16. The Earliest Evidence of an Emerging Christian Material and Visual Culture: The Codex, the Nomina Sacra and the Staurogram ............. 271 LARRY W. HURTADO
17. The Aesthetic Origins of Early Christian Architecture .......... 289 GRAYDON F. SNYDER
18. "Ascent and Descent" in the Constantinian Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem ........................ 308 WENDY PULLAN
Part Four Text and Artifact in the World of Late,Antique Judaism
19. Better Homes and Gardens: Women and Domestic Space in the Books ofJudith and Susanna .... 325 ADELE REINHI\RTZ
20. Tyros, the "Floating Palace" ................................ 340 EHUDNETZER
21. OI IIOTE IOYMlOI:
Epigraphic Evidence for Jewish Defectors ...................... 354 STEPHEN G. WILSON
22. Jerusalem Ossuary Inscriptions and the Status ofJ ewish Proselytes .. ".................................. 3 72 TERENCE L. OONALDSON
23. Behind the Names: Samaritans, loudaioi, Galileans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 389 SEAN FREYNE
24. Friendship and Second Temple Jewish Sectarianism .............. 402 WAYNE O. McCREADY
25. What Josephus Says about the Essenes in his Judean War .......... 423 STEVE MASON
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26. The Archaeological Artifacts of Masada and the Credibility ofJosephus .............................. 456 WILLIAM KLASSEN
27. Mishnah's Rhetoric, Other Material Artifacts of Late-Roman Galilee and the Social Formation of the Early Rabbinic Guild ...... 474 JACK N. LIGHTSTONE
Part Five
Text and Artifact in the Greco-Roman World
28. Some Thoughts on Theurgy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. 505 ALAN F. SEGAL
29. Apuleius to Symmachus (and Stops in Between): Pieras, Realia and the Empire ............................... 527 HAROLD REMUS
30. Apuleius the Novelist, Apuleius the Ostian Householder and the Mithraeum of the Seven Spheres: Further Explorations of an Hypothesis of Filippo Coarelli .......... 551 ROGER BECK
Indices
Modern Authors Index ....................................... 571 Ancient Sources Index ....................................... 584 Subject Index .............................................. 607
PREFACE STEPHEN G. WILSON
In itself the presentation of a Festschrift says a great deal about the respect and admiration in which we hold the recipient. Peter is likely, I imagine, to think that we have gone to excess, since he would argue (and has argued) that only the great and the good are deserving of such a signal honour, and in his usually unassuming way he would not include himself in that category. This book is evidence that we both agree and disagree. Festschriften do indeed appear rather more frequently than is justified. We emphatically believe, however, that Peter genuinely deserves one. There are, of course, his scholarly and administrative achievements. From his first book, one of the pioneering works on early Christian attitudes toward Judaism, through his work on Paul, to his recent studies on Herod and the architecture of early Judaism and Christianity, he has established himself as a scholar of both originality and depth. His labours as the editor of the series "Studies in Christianity and Judaism!Etudes sur Ie christianisme et Ie judai'sme" and of several volumes of collected essays, and as Managing Editor of the journal Studies in Religion/Sciences Religieuses, have been unstinting, allowing others to benefit from his sharp editorial eye, strong sense of style and shrewd judgment. In the Canadian Society ofBiblical Studies he was the key figure in initiating a series of extraordinarily productive seminars that have lasted now for more than twenty years and have themselves been the source of several published works. While he was an executive member, Secretary and President of the Society, and even now when he is just one of the regular old guard, we have benefited from his energy, his fertile imagination and his endless good will. His international work in the Society of Biblical Studies and the Society for New Testament Studies merely confirms the qualities that we in Canada have always known. Then there is the man himself-warm and generous, wise and thoughtful, entirely without pretension. Of course some occasions demand serious conversation and hard work, something that Peter (a closet workaholic) relishes.
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But never far beneath the surface is the rollicking laughter, the sense of the absurd, the uncanny ability to create an aura of welcome and friendship that so many of us have come to expect and enjoy. "He was not an enthusiastik man" is an epitaph I once saw. It tickled my fancy because it conjured up anything and everything, though nothing very complimentary. T umed around, the sentence could be applied to Peter: "He is an enthusiastik man." It could contain any and every compliment you might think of, and it is meant to. The theme ''Text and Artifact" seemed the best way to summarize Peter's career and abiding interests. Contributors were encouraged to give the most generous possible interpretation to "artifact"-as referring to anything outside a primary text that might illuminate it-and we are delighted that so many friends, colleagues and former students were able to contribute. There are several people to whom we owe special thanks and recognition. Sandra W oolfrey, then Director of Wilfrid Laurier University Press, from the start gave strong support and encouragement and facilitated publication by the Press. The Research Office of Wilfrid Laurier University generously provided a book preparation grant and the Canadian Corporation for Studies in Religion a book publication subsidy. Bill Klassen single-handedly and enthusiastically canvassed for funds to cover production costs, most notably a large and generous initial donation from Edward J. R Jackman that made the raising of further funds so much the easier. We approached only a small group of family, friends and colleagues to become "partners in publication," in what we hope has been a successful attempt to preserve an element of secrecy. They too were most generous in their gifts. Bill Morrow, Treasurer of the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies, adeptly managed the finances. Chad Hillier and Tony Chartrand-Burke helped to prepare the indices. Graydon Snyder suggested and provided the illustration on the cover. Jenny Wilson, with her gimlet eye and unerring sense of style, gave the whole manuscript a thorough going-over at the final stage of preparation. To all of you, Michel and I are enormously grateful.
PARTNERS IN PUBLICATION
Michael P. Barnes Bracebridge, Ontario
Victor and Kay Fenn Port Hope, Ontario
Charles and Elizabeth Bates Mississauga, Ontario
Marty and Judy Friedland Toronto, Ontario
Marianne Beare Toronto, Ontario
Roman Garrison New Wilmington, Pennsylvania
Donna and Glenna Cameron Barrie, Ontario
Lloyd and Suzanne Gaston Lion's Gate, British Columbia
Jean Lois Cameron Barrie, Ontario
James T. Gollnick Waterloo, Ontario
Mary and Ed Cameron-Miller North Bay, Ontario
Paul William Gooch Toronto, Ontario
Alan T. Davies Toronto, Ontario
Peter D. Gooch Pickering, Ontario
Kingsley and Helen R. Dean Edmonton, Alberta
Janice and Peter Griffiths Toronto, Ontario
Michel Desiardins Waterloo, Ontario
Francess G. Halpenny Toronto, Ontario
Paul and Katharine Dingley Toronto, Ontario
Vern and Elfrieda Heinrichs London, England
Terry Donaldson Toronto, Ontario
Dona Harvey and William Klassen Kitchener, Ontario
Herb and Ida Drury Barrie, Ontario
John and Helen Hurd Toronto, Ontario
Donald A. and Heather]. Etliott Toronto, Omario
Amir Hussain Northridge, California
Helen L. Epp Waterloo, Ontario
Jack N. Lightstone Montreal, Quebec
Dorothy Farooque Mississauga, Ontario
John Marshall and Pamela E. Klassen Toronto, Ontario
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Paul and Kathy McCarroll Hamilton, Ontario
Susan Richardson and Eric Rogers Toronto, Ontario
Wayne O. McCready Calgary, Alberta
Elizabeth Sabiston Toronto, Ontario
Jerome Murphy-O'Connor Jerusalem, Israel
D. Moody Smith, Jr. Durham, North Carolina
Dan Nighswander Winnipeg, Manitoba
Graydon F. Snyder Chicago, Illinois
Carolyn Nullmeyer Barrie, Ontario
Jessica J. Steen Los Angeles, California
Charles and Ann Paris Vancouver, British Columbia
Mary Lou Strathdee Thornhill, Ontario
Henry and Lillian Regehr Warkworth, Ontario
Roy and April Tredgett Willowdale, Ontario
Harold Remus and Alice Croft Waterloo, Ontario
Donald and Gloria Wiebe Toronto, Ontario
David I. and Kathryn M. Richardson Toronto, Ontario
Steve and Jenny Wilson Ottawa, Ontario
James A. Richardson Toronto, Ontario
Sandra Woolfrey Quebec City, Quebec
John and Pam Richardson Toronto, Ontario
The Jackman Foundation - courtesy Reverend Edward Jackman
Jonathan Richardson Whistler, British Columbia
The University of Toronto
Mary Richardson and Sylvain Marcotte Simon, Lucas, and Lea Jean Marcotte Richardson Stoneham, Quebec
• President's Office, courtesy President Robert Prichard
Nancy Jean Richardson Toronto, Ontario
• Knox College, courtesy Principal Arthur Van Seters
Ruth A. Richardson and Andrew J. Duffy Toronto, Ontario
• Department for the Study of Religion, courtesy Joseph Goering, Chair
-University College, courtesy Principal Paul Perron
CONTRIBUTORS
William E. Arnal New York University New York, New York
Roman Garrison USA Presbyterian Church New Wilmington, Pennsylvania
Richard S. Ascough Queen's Theological College Kingston, Ontario
Lloyd Gaston Vancouver School of Theology Vancouver, British Columbia
Roger Beck University of Toronto Toronto, Ontario
PaulW.Gooch University of Toronto Toronto, Ontario
Willi Braun University of Alberta Edmonton, Alberta
Larry W. Hurtado University of Edinburgh Edinburgh, Scotland
Laurence Broadhurst University of Toronto Toronto, Ontario
L. Ann Jervis Wycliffe College Toronto, Ontario
Michel Desjardins Wilfrid Laurier University Waterloo, Ontario
Robert Jewett Garrett Theological Seminary Evanston, Illinois
Terence L. Donaldson Wycliffe College Toronto, Ontario
William Klassen Ecole Biblique Jerusalem, Israel
James D. G. Dunn University of Durham Durham, United Kingdom
John S. Kloppenborg Verbin St. Michael's College Toronto, Ontario
Sean Freyne Trinity College Dublin, Ireland
Jack N. Lightstone Concordia University Montreal, Quebec
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Richard N. Longenecker McMaster Divinity College Hamilton, Ontario
Adele Reinhartz McMaster University Hamilton, Ontario
Steve Mason York University Toronto, Ontario
Harold Remus Wilfrid Laurier University Waterloo, Ontario
Wayne O. McCready University of Calgary Calgary, Alberta
Calvin J. Roetzel Macalaster College St. Paul, Minnesota
Halvor Moxnes University of Oslo Oslo, Norway
Alan F. Segal Barnard College New York, New York
Ehud Netzer Hebrew University Jerusalem, Israel
Graydon F. Snyder Chicago Theological Seminary Chicago, Illinois
Wendy Pullan University of Cambridge Cambridge, United Kingdom
Stephen G. Wilson Carleton University Ottawa, Ontario
PART ONE
PETER RICHARDSON WRITER AND TEACHER
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1
GIVING TO PETER WHAT HAS BELONGED TO PAUL MICHEL DESJARDINS
Ambiguities remain about what, where and when Paul of Tarsus wrote, and the degree to which his extant works reflect the man that others knew. The situation is different with Peter Richardson, who has spent the better part of his academic career engaged with Paul and his world. We can locate and date his books and articles, make reasonable sense of them, and place them in a late twentieth-century context. This essay is an attempt to tease "Peter" out of his publications, to give his work some of the attention that has long been accorded to Paul by biblical scholars-asking what Peter's literary legacy tells us about his primary research interests and his approach to the material, and suggesting reasons for those concerns. The following intellectual biography is limited to the primary texts, but is also informed by twenty years ofinteractions I have had with this scholar, first as a doctoral student, then as a colleague.
A challenge for me has been to remain faithful to the texts. Realia and other non-literary resources would certainly have broadened the discussion. I think, for example, of videotapes and personal accounts of his classroom teaching. his interactions with other scholars in academic settings, reports from those who accompanied him on his Middle East tours, the sound of his hearty laugh, the twinkle in his eye as he engages others in his favourite academic topics, and the curve of his shoulders as he absorbs a new idea. Texts do not tell us everything about a person. Sketching the picture of that more fully realized Peter, though, I leave to others. 1. What Are His Primary Research Interests? Three topics have animated Peter Richardson's writings: Paul,Jewish-Christian interactions during the first Christian century and Herod. The first two are closely linked from the start. Paul, after all, represents the clearest early
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Christian example of someone trying to work out, personally and ideologically, the nature of "Christianity" in the context of Judaism. The interest in Herod first becomes public in Peter's 1985 Canadian Society of Biblical Studies (CSBS) Presidential Address, and subsequently develops into another one of his passions.
1.1 Paul Peter is particularly fond of Paul. The attraction begins early. His published dissertation, Israel in the Apostolic Church (1969a; "The Israel of God in Early Christianity," Cambridge University, 1965), in offering a historical survey of the first one hundred years of Christian experience, allots almost half its pages to Paul. In fact, Peter Richardson's writings on the whole display a far greater interest in Paul than they do in Jesus. He sees Paul, for instance, working out an integrative solution to the Jew-Gentile problem that had eluded others, including Jesus. His Paul is a sensitive pastor, a skilled mediator. A typical comment is the following interpretation of 1 Corinthians: The absence of "anti-Judaism" in 1 Corinthians arises not because there are no Jews but rather because Paul is being deliberately conciliatory, irenic, and accommodating. The stage of development in the Corinthian congregation is such that an intemperate blast might fragment it irreparably. Paul objects to two tendencies, one on either side of him. Because he perceives himself to be in the middle, he is in a position to try to effect compromises.... There is, first, ApoUos's tendency towards a loosening of the core beliefs and customs, based on a speculative wisdom which stresses imaginative understandings of the faith. Apollos and his followers are a part of the movement towards too great an assertion of freedom and too small a concern for others .... The second tendency, on this showing, is Cephas's inclination towards a concern only for the Jewish members of the community, predicated on the conviction that the Palestinian church's needs and perceptions are basic. Those who see Cephas as their mentor are deeply concerned to ally themselves as much as possible with Palestinian customs. In such a situation Paul attempts to conciliate. (1986b; 72-73) This fondness for Paul is occasionally mixed with mild criticism. He can reprimand him for not carrying through with his Galatians catchphrase, "in Christ there is neither slave nor free" (3;28); "As a slogan it seemed not to
GIVING TO PETER
5
catch even his own imagination except as an incentive to better Christian service" (1979a: 56). And he can wish that Paul had more clearly acted on the gender equality he posits-"though Paul," he is quick to add, "was not the male chauvinist he has been made out to be by critics" (169). But when all is said and done, his Paul remains "incisive and imaginative," "deeply concerned" for his converts, "a daring thinker," someone with "enthusiasm, excitement and vitality" (41,50,72,162). His Paul is also circumscribed. He is reconfigured from the letters, notably the "great" ones (Romans, 1-2 Corinthians, Galatians), and especially 1 Corinthians. Despite thinking that Paul wrote ten letters that now bear his name (e.g., 1969a: 111; 1979a: l4). excluding the Pastorals and with a question mark beside Ephesians, and that the author of Acts was closely connected to Paul (1973d also suggests that Luke wrote 1 Timothy), he shows only a slight interest in Acts and relatively little in letters outside the Corinthian corpus. Paul's Ethic of Freedom, for example, pays almost no attention to Colossians, Ephesians and the Thessalonian correspondencenor, for that matter, to the Pastorals. In a thematic book of this nature, the single most important source is 1 Corinthians. It is in fact remarkable that throughout the mid-1970s and the 1980s the work of both of the University of Toronto's two senior New Testament scholars, John Hurd and Peter Richardson, focussed on this one Pauline letter. To be sure, the specific concerns of these scholars differed. Neither one was captivated by theology (1973b is a fleeting exception; 1976a expresses a discomfort with philosophy)-including eschatology, which both nevertheless acknowledge as significant for Paul (e.g., 1980b; 1983a). Unlike John Hurd, however, Peter Richardson has shown little interest in Pauline chronology and holistic understandings, even of 1 Corinthians-although a forthcoming book (working title: Dear Saul) promises to offer a broad interpretation of Paul. What has continued to fascinate Peter is the issue of Pauline ethics. He has also explored the relationship between Paul and the Jesus traditions, in the process offering a few reflections on Jesus himself. Peter Richardson's views on Pauline ethics are best seen in Paul's Ethic of
Freedom (1979a). This book builds on several studies (1970a; 1973a; 1973e; 1974b; 1975; particularly two closely related pieces: 1973d; 1978a) and extends into other articles (1980c, refurbished in 1983a; 19860. Its eight chapters
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explore the Galatians 3:26-28 topics (erhnidty, slavery, gender) and four others ("firmness and flexibility," "love and license," "weakness and strength," "order and charisma"), before suggesting a few modern Christian applications. The thread he isolates is a Pauline emphasis on Christian freedom generated by the Spirit. Noting the complexity of the interpenetration of Paul's "immediate circumstances with his religious inheritance and his present religious experience" (1979a: 166), he argues that discerning the Spirit allows Paul, and modern Christians in turn, to develop an ethical system that builds on the past while allowing for ongoing individual creativity and mutual respect. The complemental articles point to matters of particular ethical interest. One is the emphasis on experience--e.g., "The early church ... constantly revised, rephrased and reapplied what it 'knew', but it did so in the light of what it had experienced" (1973e: 5). Subsequent articles develop his abiding interest in the related issues of sexual ethics and women's roles in the Pauline communities. For instance, two studies (1983a; a revision of 1980c) argue that in 1 Corinthians "all of chapters 5-6, including 6: I-II, has to do with sexual questions" (1983a: 37). And "From Apostles to Virgins" insists "that Paul and a few of his associates make the most important steps towards [gender] equality" (1986f: 251). Jesus concerns Peter Richardson primarily to the extent that he sheds light on Paul. But he does offer some opinions about Jesus alone, whose actions and teachings he does not on the whole consider as remarkable as Paul's. In fact, Peter tends to be disengaged from modern historical-Jesus scholarship. His work evinces no particular fascination with form or literary criticism and little with redaction criticism, the Gospel of John is ignored, and the Synoptics on the whole are thought to bring us reliably close to the historical Jesus after one removes the anachronistic elements. Moreover, his Jesus is both "fully human" and divinely generated/resurrected: He is not portrayed in the synoptics as some mixture of divine and human in a way that separates his existence from ours, else the cross is morally evacuated of content. However, he is totally and absolutely unique because his birth has no human origin (though every other feature of it is human) and his death-though human in every respect-has not the usual conclusion. God is the origin of Jesus, and God raises Jesus. (1973f: 37)
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The most extended examination of an incident recorded about Jesus' life comes in a Society of Biblical Literature (SBL) seminar paper that sets out to explain Jesus' "temple tantrum," as Peter and others have called it with a
twinkle in their eye. Even here, however, he is interested more in "the religious realities ofBfe in Israel in the first century" (1992: 508) than he is in Jesus. The argument is that the coin used to pay the Temple tax in the first century was a Tyrian shekel, which for Jews would have asserted "Melkart's importance, [the Tyrians'J offensive eagle.symbol and their statement of Tyre's preeminence" (520). Jesus' act of overturning the money changers' tables "is not a visionary's symbol of the destruction of the Temple but a reformer's anger at the recognition of foreign gods" (523) reflected on that coin, as well as at the annual payment required by the priests, rather than the once-in-a-lifetime contribution required by Torah. Since the mid-1980s Peter Richardson has written about the possible use and abuse of sayings attributed to Jesus in the Pauline communities. One coauthored article explores 1 Corinthians to "evaluate as carefully as possible the recollections ofJesus' sayings" (1984d: 40), and to consider what this might tell us about Paul's use of them. The conclusion: Iogia informed Paul's teachings, but were not considered by him as authoritative as the Bible and were likely not taught to the Corinthians. These "factors point in a single direction: a dominant concern for preaching the crucified and risen Christ; little concern to teach about Jesus' teaching; and little inclination to use sayings of Jesus as decisive arguments in his paraenesis" (56). Elsewhere, Peter Richardson links Paul's reticence in using Jesus' sayings to a dispute he had with Apollos, which he explains by revivifying a dormant Proto-Luke hypothesis. Two articles in particular provide the details (1984b; 1987). The beginning of 1 Corinthians suggests to him a conflict in which ApoIlos shows more affinity than Paul for Jesus' teachings: Paul stresses "cross" and ApoIlos stresses "wisdom." In addition, there are tensions created by baptism: someone (probably ApoHos) has baptized some of Paul's converts in Corinth; Paul, for his part, has re-baptized some of Apollos' converts in Ephesus.... [Sjome of the differences between Paul and ApoIlos were heightened by their different perceptions of the importance and authority of Q. (1984b: 107)
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Luke, we are told, uses this dispute to revise Q. He adds to Q, or a sayings source like Q, a passion narrative, resurrection accounts and some anti-Baptist polemical sections to create "Proto-Luke." Adding Mark to the mix would later result in the Gospel of Luke. This reconstruction injects Paul into gospel formation: Jesus' sayings, Peter argues, cause divisions among early Christians, resulting in a crisis in one of Paul's communities that eventually leads to the present form of the Gospel of Luke.
1.2 Jewish·Christian Interactions Peter Richardson's concern for the interrelationship of Judaism and nascent Christianity begins with his published doctoral dissertation (1969a; see also 1970b). The book explores how "Israel" evolves in meaning for Christians, until with Justin Martyr it becomes an appellation for "Christianity": There is a gradual but inevitable takeover by the Church of the attributes and prerogatives of the people Israel, so that at some point it becomes an uncontested assumption of the Church that it is "true Israel" and "old" Israel has lost all claim to that title of ancient privilege. Hand in hand with this goes a christological development culminating in Justin's assertion that Jesus is himselfIsrael: as we participate in him we become israeL (1969a: 1-2) This concern leads to articles (1986bj 1986c; 1991bj 1991c), special edited issues of Studies in Religion/Sciences religieuses (1984e; 1985b; 1986d) and edited books (1986a; 1991a). These studies emerge from two seminars led by Peter and others that engaged a wide spectrum of scholars from the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies: "Anti-Judaism," from 1977 to 1982; and "Torah-Nomos," from 1983 to 1988. More recently he has continued his interest in Jewish,Christian interactions by studying places of worship. Two articles focus on the origin and function of the earliest synagogues. "Early Synagogues as Collegia in the Diaspora and Palestine" argues "that synagogues functioned as-and were perceived as-collegia in the diaspora, that the earliest evidence for synagogues is from the Mediterranean (not Mesopotamian or Babylonian) diaspora ... and that only gradually did they take on (especially in the Holy Land) a new set of characteristics deriving from the loss of the Temple" (l996b: 90). "AugustanEra Synagogues in Rome" adds that the synagogues in Rome "attest to the vigor of the Jewish community at the end of the first century BeE and the
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9
beginning of the first century CE" (1998b: 29). To some extent, these articles are atypical, since Peter rarely writes about Judaism outside its interactions with Christianity. "Architectural Transitions from Synagogues and House Churches to Purpose-Built Churches," though, provides this expected link by exploring the parallel development of synagogues and churches: Early on, both [Jews and Christians] used houses donated by patrons, both shifted to purpose-built structures, in a transitional phase both used meeting halts and basilicas; both eventually adopted the Roman basilica. These circumstances militate against the prevailing view that early Christianity and postdestruction Judaism were bent on differentiating themselves from one another, for JeWish and Christian communities behaved rather Similarly over a long period of time. (1998d; 386) A forthcoming book (working title: Jews, Greeks and Christians in Paul's Corinth) will gather previously published and some unpublished articles that emphasize the connections between Judaism and Christianity. Peter Richardson's writings have shown a long-standing concern with Jewish-Christian interactions in antiquity. This interest is in keeping with much New Testament scholarship since the late 19605, although the degree of attention he has paid to this topic is remarkable. His approach to ancient Judaism also reflects the more widespread "coming of age" that has characterized his generation of (mainly) Christian New Testament scholars in dialogue with Jewish scholars who themselves have re-visioned late-antique Judaism. In 1970, for instance, Peter could write: In Judaism women, though esteemed, were kept in a totally subordinated position .... The goal of Paul's exegesis appears to be, without I hope being unduly harsh, greater conformity with the Jewish (or Palestinian) view of the subordination of women.... To that extent he has not pushed Jesus' new view of women any farther, but has rather retreated ... to a more Judaic and rigidly Pharisaic view. (1970a: 36-37) A decade later more innovation is attributed to Paul, while the distinction between Paul and Judaism on this issue has not changed much. Jewish "exclusivism," he notes in Paul's Ethic of Freedom, is a problem solved by Paul, and in contrasting "Spirit" and "law" Paul's "freedom" from the law is depicted positively (1979a: 79). Part of the freedom is said to lie in pulling away from the
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treatment of women by men within Judaism. Moreover, the rhetorical skill he shows in contrasting Galatians 3:26-28 with the standard synagogue prayer serves to elevate Paul at the expense of traditional Jewish religiosity: Not only did the churches he founded break the usual pattern of Jewish restrictiveness toward women, he also broke at one level the theoretical subjugation of women. His statement in Gal. 3:28 is an exact reversal of a synagogue prayer: "Lord, I thank you that you did not create me a barbarian (Greek), a slave, or a woman." (1979a: 75) By the mid-1980s, though, we see him, and most of his colleagues, even more clearly in transition, working with a new paradigm of an increasingly diverse and less restrictive first-century Judaism. "From Apostles to Virgins" notes with approval recent work on early Judaism by Bernadette Brooten and David Goodblatt that suggests a more positive role for women in the Judaisms of that period; still, this article continues to argue that in dealing with women Paul "stands out from virtually all his contemporaries" (1986f: 249). Paul's distinctiveness is in fact central to Peter Richardson's writings. A subtle example of this occurs in the 1980 article; "'I Say, not the Lord,'" concerning 1 Corinthians 7. It begins by laying out phrases that present the
content of this Pauline chapter, and suggests that Paul "is a writer who is aware of his authority, who carefully spells out the sources of that authority, and who is self-conscious about his own role in giving authoritative advice" (1980b: 66). The bulk of the article is devoted to outlining the basic framework of rabbinic halakah, in the end arguing that the Pauline [ann of the argumentation in this chapter shows heavy dependence on halakhic form. Still, the concluding paragraph suggests a different root explanation for Paul's stance, "based on his perception of spiritual insight, aimed at an undivided response to the Lord, in an interim time when the urgency of imitating Christ took precedence over a rigorous pursuit of the law" (86). Rabbinic halakah might indeed go a long way toward explaining the rhetorical form of 1 Corinthians 7, he argues, but in the end Paul's "in Christ" experience is determinative. Nevertheless, Judaism remains Paul's main dialogue partner. Study after study (e.g., "Accommodation Ethics," 1978a) describes Paul as a Christian Jew working out his new religious understanding in the context of his mother faith, and meeting after academic meeting sees Peter probing early Judaism with his colleagues.
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1.3 Herod Herod, the major Jewish figure immediately before the rise of Christianity, has been on Peter Richardson's mind for the last fifteen years. "Religion and Architecture: A Study in Herod's Piety, Power, Pomp and Pleasure," the 1985 CSBS Presidential Address, first made this interest public. Revised a year later (1986e), this study formed the backbone to his magisterial Herod: King of the Jews and Friend of the Romans (1996a). A recent article, "Augustan-Era Synagogues in Rome" (1998b), extends the work by reconstructing a synagogue inscription to make a case for Herod's importance among first-century CE Jews in Rome. More is promised in a forthcoming book (working title: Herod's
Architecture and Urban Design), and several articles (FCa; FCb; FCc; Fed). The CSBS address centres on Herod's architecture. It argues for "a consistency in approach and style that suggests a dominating personality behind it-and that personality is probably Herod's own" (1985a: 19). Peter explores Herod in three arenas: Hellenistic architecture ("an exuberant postHellenic movement"), Romano-philia and the Orient (his "need for power and pomp and pleasure is to be understood more against the background of the East than in the light of the western Imperial power of Rome," 4). Peter's Herod is "fundamentally 'religious'" (18). His survey of the buildings covers the public (Temple to Yahweh, and numerous other places in other locations) and private structures (e.g., villas), and notes his interest in athletics-for instance, Herod
was named President for Life of the Olympic Games in 12 BCE after contributing a huge endowment to revitalize these games, and he constructed other athletic facilities in the East. Peter calls him an "Oriental despot" and notes that his artistic nature was "joined to depravity" when it came to dealing with his family (4, 17). Overall, however, this first piece is an encomium for Herod, particularly in regards to building projects: "Herod is one of the world's greatest builders" (9), from whom Augustus and others likely derived some of their architectural inspiration. In the revised form of this papcr, presented at a CSBS Torah-Nomos seminar, Peter Richardson highlights the extraordinary diversity that existed within Judaism in this pcriod, and offers a closer examination of Josephus's remarks about Herod. His conclusion is that Herod's buildings and actions, in the context of this broader understanding ofJudaism, show him to be concerned with Jewish piety, despite coming into serious conflict with the more orthodox
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members of his community. Herod, he argues, "voluntarily maintained a concern for Torah within Israel. . . . Hellenism could be accommodated to the second commandment. In this process of accommodation Herod is an important representative example" (1986e: 356, 360). The comprehensive 1996 reconstruction of Herod situates the Jewish king even more firmly within Judaism, and looks even more sympathetically on him as a man of action, sensitive to his religion and the power politics of his day: Obviously the primary sources tolerate different evaluations of the man. And while mine is not the only possible one, the somewhat more generous assessment of him which follows may be closer to the "truth" than the harsher evaluations of previous generations. (1996a: 13) The chapters alternate between a historical overview (beginning and ending with Herod's death, otherwise proceeding chronologically) and its contexts . (social, historical, archaeological, religious). Peter Richardson's interest in Herod complements his fascination with Paul. Both act as focal points for Jew-Gentile relations. Both are leading men of action, with supporters and critics. They were of different generations, but the Jewish ruler and the Christian missionary can be brought together by pointing on the one hand to Jesus' birth in Herod's kingdom, and on the other to Roman synagogues in Paul's day still apparently honouring Herod. Paul and Herod's descendants, though, were the ones left to struggle directly with Jewish-Christian relations. 2. How Does He Approach His Material? Combined interests in Herod, Jewish-Christian interactions and Paulespecially ethics, 1 Corinthians and Paul's use of Jesus traditions----dearly demarcate Peter Richardson within New Testament scholarship. Following are four less overt redactional tendencies that further distinguish him from others. They concern sources, historical reconstruction, community orientation and theories.
2.1 Sources Peter Richardson prefers primary to secondary literary sources. He works most often with Greek, less so with Hebrew, and infrequently with Latin texts. He
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eschews surveys ofsecondary litera ture, and his references show a higher~than' average sprinkling of British sources, some German and very little French. The primary sources are more often springboards for his own extended reconstructions. One example is a study that addresses the apparent inconsistency presented by the combination of 1 Corinthians 9: 19~ 23 (Paul's willingness to accommodate) and Galatians 2:11~14 (Paul's denunciation of Cephas for accommodating himself to an outside group). Peter begins here by examining the primary texts. Then he briefly summarizes the views of four scholars (Daube. Chadwick, Bomkamm, Barrett), quickly setting their resolutions aside. The bulk of the article sees him plowing his own furrow, in the process exploring aU the related Pauline passages-an unusual feature here is his reference to some patristic views, which he gets through Muurice Wiles's study-bcfore aliiving at his own reconstruction: Perer ... is being faced with contrary demands for two quite opposite courses of action. Each has its own kind of legitimacy. On the one hand he should continue to eat with uncircumcised Gentiles because to do otherwise would undercut Paul's effective ministry and would lead to a serious misunderstanding of the position of Gentiles with respect to the Law. On the other hand he should identify 1il'irh the representatives of the Jerusalem church, for to do otherwise would undercut his own ministry to the circumcision and would lead to a serious misunderstanding among Jews. (1980a: 360)
The use ofa wide range of primary sources has marked Peter's work. In the early years that range involved looking beyond the New Testament, at Jewish and non-canonical Christian sources, for infomlationabout nascent Christianity. In 1965, a Christian origins dissertation that extended from Paul to Justin raised eyebrows, as did a later study that touched on modem ethnology and jurisprudence in order to shed light on the ancient notion of "law" (1991b). More recently his work has incorporated reaHa from the ancient world. That interest, like the one concerning Herod, begins in 1985, his fifty-nrstyear, with the CSBS Presidential Address. A publication one year later includes a reference to an artifactuaI piece of information, a pair of Jerusalem Temple doors made out ofCorinthian bronze, to support a Corinthian Jewish presence of note (1986b). Then the floodgates open, and his publications become increasingly concerned with adding artifactual evidence to his reconstructions,
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"Religion, Architecture and Ethics," for instance, sketches "ways in which the architectural setting of worship influences the ethical approach of those who worship there, and reciprocally the ways the value system will influence the architectural system" (1988: 42). A clear description of this direction can be seen in his suggestions about what evidence should be heard and preferred in approaching the historical Jesus: The evidence is of several kinds: literary (easily manipulated and adapted to new situations), especially Jesus' words ... but also his actions (requiring interpretation as much as his words); archaeological (unspecific and general, not pointing directly to Jesus); and social-scientific (imposed from modern assessments, generally of modern cultures). Clearly no one kind of evidence will do .... The stark reality, however, is that most scholars use primarily literary evidence to develop their pictures of Jesus. Within that literary evidence, most concentrate on Jesus' sayings. This set of scholarly convictions needs to change. Dependence on literary evidence has Virtually exhausted itself. More-much more-needs to be made of Jesus' actions and of the context in which he is to be understood, especially from what can be reconstructed from archaeological data. (l997a: 306-307) He proceeds to offer examples of work that needs to be done, and that already has been done, to situate Jesus in his own place-e.g., using the excavations at Gamla, including its synagogue, and Yodefat, a middle-sized town in the centre of things in Lower Galilee, and paying attention to life in small communities. This study is unusual in dealing with a historical-Jesus question. On the other hand, it is consistent, not only with his long-time effort to combine different sorts of evidence to address a topic, but with his more recent attention to artifactual remains. Two forthcoming books (working titles: Religion and
Architecture in Late Hellenism, Judaism and Early Christianity; Herod's Architecture and Urban Design) and an article (FCd) promise to extend that interest.
2.2 Historical Reconstruction Peter Richardson's review of Northrop Frye's The Great Code is a rare critique of another scholar-in this case also a departmental colleague-that in both tone and content tells us much about the reviewer's own approach to the Bible.
He objects to several aspects of The Great Code, particularly the way Frye imposes a unified view on the Bible:
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Frye's theory requites a kind of homogenization that obscures the personal idiosyncracies and even the theological differences of the immediate authors. . • . Frye hints at a mysterious process of compilation, . . . [C]utting and snipping the Bible so that it fits into a neat seven-phase typological pattern is to remove it from reality and tum much of it into an abstraction•..• [Frye] dQes not take the ordinary meaning of the individual texts as seriously as he should. (1983c: 404. 405, 406)
Peter insists on the particularity of the biblical materials, decrying the anti~ historical bias in The Great Code. His approach is a textbook example of historical~critical scholarship. Typically he begins by assessing the primary sources on their own and in their immediate contexts (in recent years, this has included non~literary remains), then he looks for contemporary evidence that will make these sources more comprehensible. With rare exceptions, he does not begin with, or get bogged down by, the secondary material. Unlike Frye, he does not view the texts through a clearly delimited modem lens (e.g., sociological, psychological, anthropological, theological, literary). He also does not stay exclusively focussed on those primary sources, nor does he argue that they can never be understood. Neither does he move directly from ancient source to modem application. The crucial middle step for him is a source's historical context. This context is what provides him with the pieces of the puzzle needed to bring clarity and form to a text or group of texts. He scours the ancient world for all the pieces he can find to the particular puzzle on which he happens to be working, then arranges them in as sensible a manner as he can: "Look, this piece belongs to the picture, and fits nicely here; this other piece that I've just found on the floor is the corner piece we've been looking for; that one over there has the same colour as the bottom group, so we'll keep it ready until we find others •... J> This approach is his trademark. One even finds it in his more popular works, like his walking tour of University College, which melds historical accounts into his deSCriptions of the buildings: Three stained glass windows at the east end commemorate three University CoUege undergraduates killed in battle •... While the City of Toronto brought their bodies back from Port Dalhousie, the great ben in the main tower toned once a minute, faIling silent only when the coffins reached the college reading room. (1984c: 14)
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The same can be said for his introduction to an endowed talk at University College by the classicist Walter Burkert (1991e), which vividly situates the individual after whom the lectureship is dedicated in the context of Canada's first student strike, at University College. One finds the approach again in another rare polemical work, directed at a piece by a long-time friend and colleague, Donald Wiebe. Peter objects here to an interpretation of the University ofToronto's Department for the Study of Religion that does not, in his view, pay full attention to the historical facts (1997b). One also finds this approach in virtually every one of his explorations of the ancient world. For instance, we see him situating Barnabas in historical context (Syro-Palestine, during Nerva's reign, in a decade of}ewish resurgency) in order to make sense of that letter's anti-Judaism (1986c) i grounding Jesus' Temple incident in "the religious realities of life in Israel in the first century" (1992: 508); and explaining 1 Corinthians 9: 12-18 in the context of patronage, that is, whether followers of Christ should eat anything given to them by a patron (1994b). Returning to his first book, we hear Peter acknowledge that his major interest in Paul is as a historical source in those first decades: "The heart of this book ... is the chapter on Paul. The reason for this is the obvious one that we have in these epistles good information about developments over a period spanning parts of three decades within early Christianity" (1969a: ix). Peter Richardson is rarely satisfied situating a source in a single context. He delights in "drawing on the widest possible evidence" (1998a: xi), finding as many pieces as he can, with his eye naturally falling on different colours and shapes over the years. His Proto-Luke explanation is one example. Muted tensions between Apollos and Paul reflected in the opening chapter of 1 Corinthians lead him beyond the letter, eventually to a reconstruction of Christian origins that brings a variety of people (the author of Q, Apollos, Paul, Luke) and texts (Q, 1 Corinthians, Proto-Luke, Luke, Acts) into a coherent whole (1984b). An interpretation of 1 Corinthians 6: 1-11 likewise begins by situating this handful of verses in the context of chapters 5-7 and their concern for sexual matters, then explores four possible settings for a context that can shed light on Paul's remarks (Dead Sea Scrolls, rabbinic sources, synagogue practice, Greco-Roman sources). This study eventually selects as the likeliest setting the special disciplinary privileges exercised by synagogues in the Diaspora, which in turn lead him to posit eight real-life possibilities, grouped
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under three categories: "a father and son-in-law arguing over the status of the younger man's wife; two men involved sexually or even non-sexually with the same woman; a man charging an influential 'leader' in a congregation with 'tampering'" (1983a: 55). As a result, his treatment of these eleven verses in 1 Corinthians takes readers on a long, imaginative journey through the ancient world of marriage, sexual and legal practices. In scouring and interconnecting sources, Peter is not inclined to dismantle them. He uses Q, not Ql or Q2; Philippians, not the putative letters that lie beneath it ("the claim to be able to isolate three separate letters ... is a piece of critical subterfuge," 1969a: 11). He connects 1 Corinthians 9:12b-18 with 8-10 (1994b), and 1 Corinthians 6:1-11 with 5-7 (1983a). On the whole, but not without the occasional strong reservation, he trusts both Josephus and the gospel accounts of Jesus. Not that he accepts everything they say, but he believes that each source tells us something directly about history if only we ask the right questions and have sufficient corroborative data. For instance, rather than dismiss Matthew's infancy stories about the star and the slaughter of the infants as entirely legendary, useful only in shOWing us how the evangelist wanted to portray Jesus, he links these stories with other pieces of evidence to show how they could be grounded in history: In brief, these accounts [including Luke and Josephus] suggest the following; (1) both John the Baptist (Luke 1:5) and Jesus (Matt. 2: 1) were born late in Herod's reign; (2) the birth of Jesus may have been in 7 BCE, two-and-a-half years before Herod's death; (3) the tradition of the "massacre of the innocents" reflected Herod's succession problems and the execution of three of his own children; (4) the flight to Egypt derived from scriptural allusions that were plausible because of the difficult conditions in Judea at the end of Herod's reign. (l996a: 298)
Bringing the sources together requires sympathetic imagination. Peter Richardson particularly likes to put himself in someone else's place and reconstruct a scene for his readers-e.g., "1 can almost hear Jesus-and for that matter the revolutionaries in 66 CE-say, then give to Melkart what is his and don't sully the Temple with foreign gods" (1992: 519). He imagines what might have been on the mind of Jesus (1969b: 3; 1992: 523), Herod (1985a: 5), the Corinthian community (1994b: 101), and Judaism at the time of the
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Maccabean revolt (1996a: 73). He builds this into a hermeneutical approach that has long been with him: If we are prepared to tackle the Bible on its own terms, to begin with, and see what it says, before judging what it must be, I think the attempt might go something like the following: a) Individual parts of the Bible would have to be studied against the background of an adequate knowledge of the social, cultural, religious, economic and historical setting. b) The interpreter, in seeking to understand this text, would have to enter into the writer's mind (empathy) to understand, so far as possible, why he wrote what he did in that setting. ... (1976a: 22; so also 1968a; 1968b) Peter's studies are attempts to convince readers that his reconstruction has correctly sketched the picture that would have existed in antiquity, but now perforce eludes modern interpreters.
2.3 Community Orientation Peter Richardson has spent his career working with other scholars, building communities. With one or two exceptions, noted above, one finds no open criticisms of other scholars in his publications. He likes to keep the peace. The same could be said of his explorations of the ancient world. He has portrayed Paul and Herod engaged in their broader contexts Oewish, Christian, Roman) j Christianity and Judaism emerging together like Rebecca's children, to use Alan Segal's felicitous turn of phrase; and both Paul and Herod with their positive sides amply displayed. This constructive orientation is not restricted to
the ancient world. An early essay laments the antagonism he encountered
between faculty and administration in his first year at Loyola of Montreal, now Concordia University, which threatened to obscure diversity and overlook integrity ("Division of any social entity ... into two camps is the greatest of errors. It prepares people for conflict and war," 1970c: 5). This spirit of collaboration is also reflected in his comments on the college system, including teaching, at the University of Toronto: A college system can encourage close academic contact among students and between students and faculty a sense of community, a healthy diversity arising out of differing perspectives .... Colleges can be places where social and cultural activities can be developed which will broaden narrowly specialized students, where concern can be expressed for the integrity of a
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student's education, and where the unity of knowledge in a fragmented university can be tested. Above all they can be places where students receive informed and concerned individual attention.... Colleges ... are places where breadth, experimentation, integration, culture, and personal worth can be encouraged. (1978b: 12) The whole community forms an environment that must be carefully nurtured and allowed to bloom. (1979b: 3) Peter Richardson has not only built communities within the University of Toronto system-first as Chairman of the Division of Humanities, Scarborough College, between 1974 and 1979; then as Principal of the University of Toronto's largest college, University College, between 1979 and 1989-but has played a similar role in the major biblical academic societies: the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies (e.g., Executive Secretary, 1978-82; President and Acting President, 1984-86), the Society of Biblical Literature (e.g., Chair of the Program Committee, 1996 to the present) and the Studiorum Novi Testamenti Societas (SNTS) (e.g., Chair of the organizing committee for the 1980 Toronto meeting). Several publications have emerged directly from his involvement in these societies: 1980cb, 1992 (SBL); 1998a (SNTS); 1984e, 1985a, 1985b, 1986a, 1986b, 1986c, 1986d, 1986e, 1991a, 1991b, 1991c, 1991d, 1996b, 1996c, 1997a, FCe (CSBS). His collaboration can also be seen in other ways. He has jointly written and edited a large number of pieces, some with colleagues (1978a; 1984a; 1984c; 1986a; 1991a; 1994a; 1998a; 1998c), others with graduate students (1983b; 1984d; 1986c; 1996c). He has been asked to add contributions to Festschriften (1970b; 1984b; 1993; 1994b; 1998d), and a foreword to the book surveying biblical studies in Canada (1982). A study group he led at St. Cuthbert's Presbyterian Church in Hamilton helped him to form his book on ethics (1979a). Moreover, he has worked closely with Sandra Woolfrey, the now former-Director of Wilfrid Laurier University Press, as well as with the Board of the Canadian Corporation for Studies in Religion (CCSR) and the Canadian Federation for the Humanities (CFH), to enhance the quality and accessibility of Canadian academic publications. He has been a CFH Board member (1981-84), CCSR Vice-President (1990-93) and Managing Editor of the journal Studies in Religion/Sciences religieuses (1986-96), and continues to
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serve as editor of the monograph series "Studies in Christianity and Judaism!Etudes sur Ie christiantsme et Ie judai'sme" (1990 to the present).
2.4 Theories Juxtaposed to this communal element is an equally pronounced tendency to offer theories that break new ground, reorganizing and presenting material in a novel manner. "Spirit and Letter," for instance, mentions Ernst Kasemann's discussion of the Pauline distinction between pneuma andgramma, then quickly adds: "What follows is an attempt to explore this, though in fairness to Kasemann 1 must add that I have gone my own way" (1973a: 208). This Sinatraesque comment also applies to his other publications. At times the stance has a tweaking-their-noses quality, as when he offers two Proto-Luke articles in honour of people who he knows do not look kindly on the hypothesis (1984b; 1987). Other times it is reflected in his experimental writing style. He likes to end his writings where they began-for instance, in his Israel in the Apostolic Church (1969a) the bookends address Justin; in "Philo and Eusebius" (1993) he opens and closes \¥ith Eusebius's comments about the Therapeutae. In Herod, though, Peter Richardson not only follows this practice but presents us with imaginatively reconstructed ancient documents. The first ("Introduction") is set at the time of Heroo's death. It begins with an imitation of the contemporary Acta Diuma, a daily gazette "posted daily in Rome and distributed to the provinces" (1996a: 1), and is followed by a variety of written accounts of Herod's death. The introduction touches on Herod's importance, the complexity of the world in which he lived and the different ways in which he was seen. The last document ("Chapter 13") is modelled on Augustus's Res
gestae and offers Heroo's appreciation of himself as he is about to die. It allows Peter to close the book with a positive appreciation of the grand figure he has painted. The fictional mode will continue in one of his forthcoming books (Dear Saul), which will include letters written (back) to Paul from a variety of ancient people, completing a project that has been on his mind for years. Some of Peter Richardson's most daring theories clearly display his individuality. The positive assessment of Herod immediately comes to mind: his book length reconstruction (1996a) offers a revisionist picture of Herod set firmly and positively within Judaism-a man of action, a great architect, in tune with the power politicS of his day. Proto-Luke, described above, also
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stands out as a theory that not only reconstructs the beginning of 1 Corinthians as nobody else had, but also resurrects a moribund source theory (1984bj 1987). "Jewish Voluntary Associations in Egypt and the Roles of Women" argues for the presence of Jewish priestesses in the temple at the military settlement of Leontopolis: "This evidence for Egyptian priestesses and for assimilation ofJews in Egypt to Egyptian religious practices provides a plausible background for the claim that the temple at Leontopolis has priestesses" (1996c: 238). In "Barnabas, Nerva and the Yavnean Rabbis," another article co-authored with a student, Barnabas is dated to the reign of the previously overlooked emperor Nerva (l983b), a novel theory at the time but one that has since gained wide acceptance. The Temple incident further exemplifies his love of challenging theories: in the wake oflong-standing, ongoing attempts to spiritualize the story of Jesus overturning the money changers' tables ("cleansing the Temple"), Peter takes the contrary view that Jesus likely overturned the tables in reaction to the political implications of the coin used for payment. Another article (1993) sets out partly to rehabilitate Eusebius's clearly apologetic, rarely considered, claim that the Therapeutael Therapeutrides were Christian: after surveying a wide range of evidence he wonders whether there might in fact have been early Christians who modelled themselves on this Jewish monastic group. Recent studies on synagogues noted above (1996b; 1998b; 1998cl) also fly in the face of what many others are saying about their origins (he points to the Mediterranean Diaspora, with synagogues functioning as collegia), development (modelled on the Roman basilica, changing in form over time), early presence in Rome (including a novel reconstruction of a fragmentary synagogue inscription to read "Herod"), and influence on the structure of Christian churches. 3. Why Does He Approach the Material the Way He Does? There are, of course, a great many contributing factors to Peter Richardson's interests and approach. His bachelor's degree in architecture in 1957 can naturally be linked to his present skills in deciphering Herodian architecture, and perhaps also the fascination with the topic itself, although several archaeological trips he took to the Middle East in the 1980s and especially the 1990s, including the people he met on those trips, probably are at least equally responsible for generating and sustaining that interest. The architectural
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interest, though, has remained vital to him throughout his career. The juxtaposition of religion and architecture that one finds in his more recent publications (e.g., 1985a; 1986e re: Herod; 1988 re: ethics), for instance, is also present in his earliest published article (1962), which explores how architectural expression unconsciously and consciously reflects theological convictions. His doctoral training at Cambridge in the early 19605 with
C. F. D. Moule can
readily be seen in the historical-critical approach, with its focus on the primary sources and a British delight in positing novel theories. His Canadian work experience led to publications concerned more (Loyola of Montreal, Theology, 1969-74), then less (University of Toronto, Religious Studies,
1974
to the
present), overtly with theological issues. The University of Toronto context has given him a steady stream of doctoral students with whom to work. Not to be forgotten are the intellectual contributions of former students like Martin Shukster and Peter Gooch, with whom he worked closely through most of the 1980s and who now express their creativity outside the academy. His duties as Principal of University College helped to foster community spirit. One can add to this the influence of his colleagues, mainly in the academic societies to which he has long belonged-colleagues amply represented in this volume, whose intellectual energy and views on Paul, Luke, Judaism, Christianity and unearthing the past have made their way into Peter's own writings. A full intellectual biography would also consider, inter alia, the formative roles played by his family, friends and various synagogue and church constituencies. Most important, though, seems to have been Peter's religious grounding. He self-identifies openly as a Christian in his earlier works. Not surprisingly, "we in the Christian faith" expresses his stance in an article written in the final year of his Bachelor of Divinity (1962: 12). A piece written when he was Assistant Minister at Knox Presbyterian Church in Toronto (1965-69) declares a basic set of Christian beliefs with a decidedly Pauline ring: Do I really believe that he is the Son of God, Son of Man, Messiah, King of Israel, Suffering Servant-the Truth? Do I believe he died on my behalf, to redeem me (rom sin? Do I believe he really rose from the dead? For if not, the Christian message is nonsense: Do I believe that the Holy Spirit's power is available to me now, while Jesus is absent from this world? (1967: 8; also 1968b: 16)
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It goes on to encourage Christians to stand up and be counted: "We cover up our uncertainty by speaking fuzzily, without conviction and without direction.... 'The desire to be inoffensive and mediating leads all too often to statements that have any, or no, meaning" (8). The Pauline heritage continues in a later article: "It is only as the Church recovers this notion that it is in Christ that everything finds its meaning that the ChUl'ch will become true to its heritage from Paul" (1970a: 37). "Fruit Pickers" (l973c) is a Christian sermon on joy, in honour of the tenth anniversary of CRUX, the journal in which he frequently published in his early years. He also speaks dearly as a believer in Paul's Ethic of Freedom: "We who identify ourselves as Christians.... For those of us who take the Bible seriously• . . . [Wlithout ever losing sight of the real goal of Christianity.... We can change with the assurance that 'Christ has set us free for freedom'" (1979a: 98, 166,98,172). Peter's hermeneutical approach also commonly entails an application to modem Christian experiences. His position is that Paul's way of approaching the Bible ("the world's greatest book," as he calls it in his Frye review, 1983c: 407) and interacting with his communities, rather than the specifics of what he says on any particular issue, should guide Christians today. We see that position expressed in several early publications (e.g., 1968b: 17#18; 1971: 26; 1973a: 218; 1976b: 8·9), and most dearly in Paul's Ethic of Freedom: A first step is to recognize that our use of Paul (and the rest of Scripture) should be analogous to Paul's use of Scripture. That is, just as Paul's view of freedom is a reinterpretation of the Old Testament in the light of Jesus and of the Holy Spirit, and just as Jesus is an interpreter of the prophets, and just as the prophets are the interpreters of the law, so we are interpreters of the message of Paul. The applicational and interpretive need is similar. This is not to deny that the Scriptural canon is dosed. . . . Scripture remains the norm and standard. But it is not always directiy capable of being applied to circumstances that are radically different.
(1979a: 168)
Peter Richardson's Christian stance can also be detected in the theoties he p0.sits, even when an explicit religious connection is now usually absent. The pieces of the ancient puzzle are scarce and rough#edged. They can be put together in different ways, and scholars' reconstructions invariably reflect their priorities and presuppositions. Peter searches in Paul's letters for what he sees
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as his "best insights" (1973d: 24), and he finds these in several places. A good example occurs in "From Apostles to Virgins," where he presents a multifaceted argument that makes a case for an egalitarian situation in the Pauline churches, "where women occupied fundamentally important positions, including such important 'offices' as apostle and deacon" (1986f: 257). He then sees this situation deteriorating soon afterwards: [The roles of] women came increasingly to be limited to those of widow and virgin, and to some extent deacon.... In brief, the roles for women in the very earliest period of the church come to be diminished, there is a growing tendency to emphasize gender-related roles (widows and virgins), and these are either associated with the contemplative life or are directed only to other women. (1986£: 258, 253) Others have sometimes configured the evidence differently-e.g., arguing for a Pauline hardening of gender lines, giving Jesus priority of place in striking out for gender equality; or arguing for a gender-biased Christianity at its roots. In Peter's reconstruction, Paul becomes a guide for modern Christians searching for gender equality in the Bible. Another example is his Proto-Luke hypothesis, which, despite its radical source-critical nature, in fact is grounded in a comforting scenario: Luke as a disciple of Paul, with both of them establishing the base of the New Testament. Peter Richardson's particular Christian stance also permeates his career in ways that are more foundational. The type of Christianity he admires in print is the one he has modelled in his career. It is based on what one does rather than what one says (1972: 3); it values exploration, diversity, respect for others, dynamism and change (1974a; 1978a: 127-29; 1979a: 100; 1986a: ix-x; 1991c: 147); it builds community (1970c; 1978b; 1979b); it is entrenched in its traditions-especially the primary sources and its Jewish matrix-while being guided by the SpirittG make changes when necessary (1962; 1979a: 170). The academic interests that have caught his attention, and the ways he has shaped them, all reflect these values. The Judaism and Christianity he develops both share these characteristics, at least in their better moments. Like him, Herod and Paul typify men of action, individuals who are willing to initiate thoughts and practices while remaining grounded in their religious traditions. Like Paul, this modern interpreter of Paul lives out his faith through his work. "Is it possible," he asks early in his career,
GIVING TO PETER
25
or even desirable for [a Christian] to playa distinctively prophetic role within the so-called secular University? Can his attitude to the University's function be sufficiently positive that he can genuinely be a member of that community in the full sense of the term while at the same time having a sufficiently different view of seeking and disseminating truth that his role is recognizably different? (1970d: 12)
He would answer "Yes" to these questions. For over a third of a century Peter Richardson has distinguished himself in the academy, which has become not only a home to him, but a reminder of a larger body to which he belongs as a Christian teacher and researcher: ulJ.€iC; oe e01;€ OWf!<X XPlO1;OU K<xt IJ.EA T) £K IJ.EpOUC;. K<Xl OUC; lJ.eV e8e-r:o 6 eEOC; tv 1:'TI tKKAT)oi~ TIp&nov cmoo1;oAouC;, O€l)-r;€POV npo4>~1;<XC;, 1;pi1;OV OtO<XOK(XAOUC; (1 Cor 12:27-28).
26
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
References (Complete Bibliography) 1962 1967 1968a 1968b
1969a 1969b 1970a 1970b
1970c 1970d 1971 1972 1973a 1973b 1973c 1973d
"Needed. a New Criterion: A Study in 'What Churches Should Look Like.'" Knoxonian 2/4: 12-16. "Challenge." Crisis and Dialogue 1/2: 8. "The Use of the Old Testament in Romans 9-11." Christian Brethren Research Fellowship Journal 17: 4-8. "The Interpretation of the Old Testament in the New Testament and Interpretation Today." Christian Brethren Research Fellowship Journal 17: 15-19. Israel in the Apostolic Church. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. "Mao and Jesus-Quo vadis?" AgapelLoyola News (October): 3. "Paul Today: Jews, Slaves and Women." CRUX 8/1: 30-37. "The Israel-Idea in the Passion Narratives." In Ernst Bammel (ed.), The Trial of Jesus: Cambridge Studies in Honour of C. F. D. Moule, 110. London: SCM. "WelThey Syndrome." Loyola Libre (March): 5. "Response to Paper II [by W. J. Farris]." CRUX 7/3: 12-13. "Biblical Variety in Ministry." CRUX 8/4: 24-26. "Editorial Introduction to 'Tongues Talk.'" CRUX 913: 2-3. "Spirit and Letter: A Foundation for Hermeneutics." Evangelical
Quarterly 45/4: 208-18. "Justification." In C. F. H. Henry (cd.), Baker's Dictionary of Christian Ethics, 362-6.1. Grand Rapids: Baker. "Fruit Pickers." CRUX lOll: 1-2. "Subjugated Wives and Emancipated Women in Pauline Thought."
CRUX 10/2: 17-25. 1973e 1973£ 1974a 1974b 1975 1976a 1976b 1978a 1978b 1979a
"Understanding Understanding." ARC 1/1: 4-5. [Co-founder ofARC in 1973] "Reflections on Jesus: End and Beginning." CRUX 11/1: 34-37. "Thirteen Questions on Violence." ARC 2/4: 10-11. "On Freedom: In Place of an Introduction." CRUX 12/2: 1-3. "Slavery and Freedom: In Place of a Conclusion." CRUX 12/3: 30-33. "Scripture." CRUX 13/1: 10-12, 15,21-23,25-29,40-42. "Weak and Strong: Changing a Metaphor." CRUX 13/2: 3-9. «Accommodation Ethics" (with Paul Gooch). Tyndale Bulletin 29: 89142. "The Colleges: They Do a Better Job than Their Critics Suppose." University of Toronto Bulletin 32/5 (October 10): 12. Paul's Ethic of Freedom. Philadelphia: Westminster.
GIVING TO PETER
1979b 1980a 1980b
1980c
1982 1983a 1983b 1983c 1984a
1984b 1984c 1984d
1984e 1985a
1985b 1986a
1986b
27
"A Teaching PrincipaL" Options 1: 2-5. "Pauline Inconsistency: 1 Corinthians 9: 19-23 and Galatians 2: 1114." New Testament Studies 26: 347-62. "'I Say, not the Lord': Personal Opinion, Apostolic Authority and the Development of Early Christian Halakah." Tyndale Bulletin 31: 65-86. "Judgment, Immorality and Sexual Ethics in 1 Cor. 6." In Paul Achtemeier (ed.), SBL 1980 Seminar Papers, 337-58. Missoula: Scholars Press. "Foreword." In John S. Moir, A History of Biblical Studies in Canada: A Sense of Proportion, ix-x. Chico: Scholars Press. "Judgment in Sexual Matters in 1 Corinthians 6: 1-11." Novum Testamentum 25: 37-58"Barnabas, Nerva and the Yavnean Rabbis" (with Martin B. Shukster). Juurnal of Theological Studies 34: 31-55. "Cracking the Great Code, or History Is Bunk." Dalhousie Review 63: 400-407. From Jesus to Paul: Studies in Honour of Francis Wright Beare. Ed. by Peter Richardson and John C. Hurd. Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. "The Thunderbolt in Q and the Wise Man in Corinth." In Richardson and Hurd, From Jesus to Paul, 91-111. The Great Good Place: Exploring University College (unsigned; with John Parry). Toronto: University College. "Logia of Jesus in 1 Corinthians" (with Peter Gooch). In David Wenham (ed.), Gospel Perspectives, V: The Jesus Tradition Outside the Gospels, 39-62. Sheffield: JSOT Press. "Editorial." Studies in Religion/Sciences religieuses 13/1: 3-4. [Guest editor of the issue] "Religion and Architecture: A Study in Herod's Piety, Power, Pomp and Pleasure" (CSBS Presidential Address). Bulletin of the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies 45: 3-29. "Editorial." Studies in Religion/Sciences religieuses 14: 3-4. [Guest editor of the issue1 Anti-Judaism in Early Christianity, Vol. 1: Paul and the Gospels. Ed. by Peter Richardson, with David Granskou. Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. "On the Absence of Anti-Judaism in 1 Corinthians." In Richardson and Granskou, Anti-Judaism in Early Christianity, 59-74.
28
TEXT AND ARTIFACT 1986c
1986d 1986e 1986f 1987
1988 1991a
1991b 1991c
"Bet ha-midrash and the Epistle of Barnabas" (with Martin B. Shukster). In Stephen G. Wilson (ed.), Anti-Judaism in Early Christianity, VoL 2; Separation and Polemic, 17,31. Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. "When Is Torah nomos!" Studies in Religion/Sciences religieuses 15: 275-76. [Guest editor of the issue] "Law and Piety in Herod's Architecture." Studies in Religion/Sciences religieuses 15: 347-60. "From Apostles to Virgins: Romans 16 and the Roles of Women in the Early Church." Toronto Joumal of Theology 2: 232,61. "Gospel Traditions in the Church in Corinth {with Apologies to B. H. Streeter)." In Gerald F. Hawthorne and Otto Betz (eds.), Tradition and Interpretation in the New Testament: Essays in Honor of E. Earle Ellis for His 60th Birthday, 301-18. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. "Religion, Architecture and Ethics: Some First Century Case Studies." Horizons in Biblical Theology 10/2: 19-49. Law in Religious Communities in the Roman Period: The Debate Over Torah and Nomos in Post-Biblical Judaism and Early Christianity. Ed. by Peter Richardson and Stephen Westerholm. Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. "Law in Religion: Origins and Present State." In Richardson and Westerholm, Law in Religious Communities in the Roman Period, 1,18. "Torah and nomos in Post-Biblical Judaism and Early Christianity." In Richardson and Westerholm, Law in Religious Communities in the
Roman Period, 147-56. 1991d 1991e
1992
1993
"Introduction" [to the index to volumes 1-20, which he also supervised}. Studies in Religion/Sciences religieuses 20/4: 416. "Introduction: The Samuel James Stubbs Lectureship." In Walter Burkert, Oedipus, Oracles ana Meaning: From Sophocles to Umberto Eco. Toronto: University College, i-it "Why Turn the Tables? Jesus' Protest in the Temple Precincts." In Eugene H. Lovering (ed.), SBL 1992 Seminar Papers, 507-23. Atlanta: Scholars Press. "Philo and Eusebius on Monasteries and Monasticism-The Therapeutae and Kellia." In Bradley H. Mclean (ed.), Origins and
Method: Towards a New Understanding of Judaism and Early Christianity: Essays in Honour of John C. Hurd, 334-59. Sheffield: 1994a
JSOTPress. Gospel in Paul: Studies on Corinthians, Galatians and Romans for Richard N. Longenecker. Ed. by L. Ann Jervis and Peter Richardson. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press.
GIVING TO PETER
1994b
29
1998b
"Temples, Altars and Living from the Gospel (1 Cor. 9.12b-18)." In jervis and Richardson, Gospel in Paul, 89-110. Herod: King of the Jews and Friend of the Romans. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press. [Book of the Month and History Book of the Month selections] "Early Synagogues as Collegia in the Diaspora and Palestine." In John S. Kloppenborg and Stephen G. Wilson (eds.), Voluntary Associations in the Graeco-Roman World, 90-109. London/New York: Routledge. "Jewish Voluntary Associations in Egypt and the Roles of Women" (with Valerie Heuchan). In Kloppenborg and Wilson, Voluntary Associations in the Graeco- Roman World, 226-51. "Enduring Concerns: Desiderata for Future Historical-Jesus Research." In William E. Arnal and Michel Desjardins (eds.), Whose Histarical]esus?, 296-307. Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. "Correct, but Only Barely: Wiebe on Religion at Toronto." Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 9: 233-47. Judaism and Christianity in First-Century Rome. Ed. by Karl P. Donfried and Peter Richardson. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. "Augustan-Era Synagogues in Rome." In Donfried and Richardson,
1998c
Judaism and Christianity in Rome, 17-29. Common Life in the Early Church: Essays Honoring Graydon F. Snyder.
1996a
1996b
1996c
1997a
1997b 1998a
1998d
1999
Ed. by Julian V. Hills, with Richard B. Gardner, Robert Jewett, Robert Neff. Peter Richardson, David M. Scholer and Virginia Wiles. Harrisburg: Trinity Press International. "Architectural Transitions from Synagogues and House Churches to Purpose-Built Churches." In Hills et al., Common Life in the Early Church. 373-89. Herod: King of the Jews and Friend of the Romans. Minneapolis/ Edinburgh: Fortress/T. & T. Clark. [paperback reprint of 1996a]
Forthcoming FCa
FCb FCc
"The Social-Historical Significance for Gentiles and Women of Herod's Temple Architecture." In Philip R. Davies and John Halligan (eds.), Second Temple Period Studies: The Roman Period. Sheffield: JSOT Press. "Herod's Religious-Architectural Strategy in the Diaspora." In Davies and Halligan, Second Temple Period Studies. "Herodians." In Larry Schiffmann and James C. VanderKam (eds.), Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls. New York: Oxford University Press.
30
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Fed
FCe
Twenty-nine articles for Eerdmans Dictionary of the Bible. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans: "1 Corinthians," "Barnabas, Epistle of," "Barnabas, Acts of," "Salome" [two entries], "Alexandra" [four entries], "Philip" [five entries], "Mariamme" [six entries], "Antipater" [three entries], "Herod the Great," "Archelaus," "Antipas," "Philip," "Agrippa 1," "Agrippa II." "Archaeological Evidence for Religion and Urbanism in Caesarea Maritima." In Terence L. Donaldson (ed.), Religious Rivalries and the Struggle for Success in Caesarea Maritima. Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press.
2
THE PROFESSOR'S HOUSE LAURENCEBRO,~HURST
Professor Richardson's students have noticed the good casting and the appropriate setting: his bushy beard, his large glasses framing those keen eyes, his ready smile, his warm voice, all accompanying a tall, trimly dressed man with a steady gait who roams the beautiful University College and toils away in his charming office. One reason so many of his students consider him such a fine professor is simply this: he fits the bill so well. As I polled as many of his current and former senior students as I could, however, I learned that they considered this package strictly preliminary. Recurring words appeared in conversations with these students. A simple list conveys the tenor: enthusiasm, knowledge, tolerance. humour. graciousness, honesty, charisma, humility, wisdom; dO?''11-to-earth, good-natured, organized, straightforward, open-minded, patient. insightful. co-operative, daring, prepared, supportive, approachable; teacher and friend. The particular combination of traits was consistently portrayed as both disarming and contagious. Circles of students, regardless of their pursuits post·Richardson, expressed a hope that they might one day be like him. For some, it was a hope to engage the attention of an inquisitive group, or to teach. or to earn such respect. For others, it was a hope to exhibit clear joy in one's vocation. (One student last year remarked to him that he must be awaiting his retirement eagerly. It was a comment, not a question, but he returned an earnest answer aU the same: "No.") As a current student noted, it might also simply be a "hope to treat others kindly, with interest and with dignity." Honourable, equal treatment of students is his trademark. Just one example of this is his insistence on including senior undergraduates in his graduate seminars, encouraging the fomler while checking the egos of the graduate students. His clearpteference for topics and approaches that mesh the
32
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
literary with the architectural never pens in those who wish to take another path-one thinks of his beaming face on the opening day of seminars as students introduce themselves and he avidly jots down notes on particular language skills, artistic talents, computer expertise and travel experience. Remarkable too is his obsessive deference to the primary sources. True, he begins each seminar with extensive bibliographies, but it is to the primary sources that he speaks, relentlessly. Not only does this program strongly direct his wards, but his additional decree on balanced treatment of the canonical and the non-canonical further shapes their training. Diligently, he acquaints his students with the accoutrements of academic life: conferences, colloquia, work-study programs, fellowships, grants and particularly other scholars. Most of the senior students of antiquity at the Centre for the Study of Religion have shared a drink with real, breathing New Testament luminaries. As well, for several years Professor Richardson has convened the Colloquium on Religions of Classical Antiquity at the Centre, a series that treats all presenters with equal respect. How many graduate students can say that they have presented in the same colloquium series as Jerome Murphy-O'Connor? Stimulating is his love of travel to the sites of the Roman Empire. How many excited students has he sent on their nervous way to excavations in the Middle East? How many have walked out of his classroom with abiding images of ancient Corinth in their heads, images created by his guided tour of an eclectic collection of slides? Because he showed them, how many now know the difference between a Greek and a Roman theatre; know why hillside audience buildings are not amphitheatresj and can identify a Roman temple, a bouleuterion, an odeon, a Roman house and even a latrine? Naturally, it was Professor Richardson who initiated and facilitated my trip to Turkey. For several years I had been studying the synagogue of ancient Sardis
with him. As I stepped off the bus in Sardis last summer, I made my way as if by custom to a looming structure, found myself standing in the synagogue and was overwhelmed by familiarity. I realized with a sigh that the long trip was exhilarating but superfluous: my professor had already taken me to ancient Sardis.
PART TWO
TEXT AND ARTIFACT IN THE NEW TESTAMENT WORLD
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3
READING THE TEXT AND DIGGING THE PAST: THE FIRST AUDIENCE OF ROMANS LLOYD GASTON
Critical history and especially archaeology are relative latecomers to the study of biblical texts, and that can make all the difference. As Norman Golb has argued in connection with Qumran archaeology, including the new texts, and the Essenes of classical texts, what was first known became privileged and what comes latertends to be used as corroboration (1980). It is therefore salutary to try in one's imagination to let the last become the first, to begin with
archaeology with no reference to the traditional interpretation of texts. Until recently a major function of Syro,Palestinian archaeology has been to demonstrate the historical reliability of biblical texts (Dever 1992). The archaeology of early Christianity has traditionally been used as a support for early evidence oflater theological doctrines and practices (Snyder 1985: 3-11; Frend 1996). The history and archaeology of Diaspora Judaism have been studied under the a priori assumptions of Christians and others about Jews (Kraabel1982j Rutgers 1995). Partly because of his strong interest in ancient architecture, Peter Richardson has been able to escape these traps. 1 In order to understand the purpose of an ancient writing it is necessary to know as much as possible about the historical situation of the author and especially those addressed. In most cases those situations have to be deduced solely from the writing in question. The circularity is as obvious as it is hard to overcome. What would help would be the perspective from a bit of evidence, no matter how small, from outside the circle. It probably is not wise, but I have chosen to discuss in this regard the audience of Paul's letter to Roman
I first met Peter Richardson in the spring of 1970 and he has been a friend and mentor ever since. It is sometimes difficult to keep up with him, but the present small essay is offered in gratitude by one who is still trying.
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Christians. z Most helpful would be material archaeological evidence. There is of course none directly from the first century CE, but finds from a later period can perhaps be used with care. Because more is needed I have deliberately spoken of "digging the past," to include also the antiquarian digging in old written sources to find some history outside the text. We shall try not to let traditional understanding of the text influence the interpretation of the later historical and archaeological evidence. 1. Location of the Early Roman Christians We have some idea of which parts of Rome contained Christians in the second and third centuries. Catacombs were presumably built reasonably close to the living. The later titulus churches may well have been built on the sites of earlier house churches. If there has been some continuity over the centuries, then we may imagine Christians in these areas already in the first century,from which we have no direct archaeological evidence. Among other places we can mention specifically Trastevere. 3 We are better informed about areas where Jews lived in the first century. Philo (Leg. 155) mentions specifically Trastevere, and also the location of the large Monteverde catacomb (there were of course others in different areas). Although there are no material remains, from epitaphs we know the names of some thirteen synagogues (Leon 1960; 135-66). It may be possible to date four or five of them to the reign of Augustus, and they may have been dedicated buildings (Richardson 1998a),4 as at Ostia (White 1998). Many would like to bring these two sets of data together as evidence for the origins of the Roman church in the synagogues. But that is to isolate them both much too much from their neighbours. Trastevere was certainly not a Jewish ghetto (an anachronistic concept), but rather one of the main quarters of the "unromanized" (MacMullen 1993). The inhabitants were mainly Greek-
2 I use this anachronism for the sake of convenience. Paul of course does not know the word "Christian," and he knows of no "church of Rome" comparable to "the church of God which is at Corinth." 3 The mostthorough study is that of Lampe (1989: 10-52), who also deals with other parts of the city, but Trastevere is enough for the present brief discussion. 4 Some additional support for his argument may be provided by Philo (Leg. 156, 157), who says that Roman Jews had 1tpooeuxai rather than ouvaywyai.
READING THE TEXT AND DIGGING THE PAST
37
speaking immigrants to Rome. some voluntary immigrants as traders and craftspeople, but mostly involuntary immigrants as slaves who remained after being freed. That many Jews and Christians lived in this area is because they were part of a much wider category, not because they were necessarily related to one another at all. 2. Social Status of the Early Roman Christians While Trastevere was not one of the most desirable neighbourhoods of ancient Rome, it would also be anachronistic to call it a slum filled with tenements of the poor. Social stratification tended to be vertical in buildings more than horizontal by area. The typical insula had small shops and workshops on the ground level. "luxury apartments" on the second and third floors (Acts 20:91), and small, dark single or double rooms higher up (Packer 1967). While early Roman Christians had no access to a domus, one can imagine their social situation to be almost as varied as that of Corinth (Theissen 1982; Meeks 1983). If one may extrapolate from the somewhat later documents 1 Clement and the Shepherd ofHermas, the early Roman Christians consisted of many poor but also some relatively wealthy people (Osiek 1983; Maier 1991; Gaston 1998). The situation among Jews seems to have been comparable (Rutgers 1995). When coupled i'iith later evidence from catacombs and inscriptions and the excavation of the remains of churches, study of the social circumstances of Jews and Christians in Rome can teach us much about the history of these two communities. In itself it does not show that they were in any way related. 3. Claudius·s Expulsion of the Jews from Rome
Ioudaeos impulsore Chresto assidue tumultuantes Roma expulit (Suetonius, Claudius 25.4). Rarely in history has so much been made to depend on such an obscure sentence. We are asked to believe that Suetonius really meant "Christus" when he wrote "Chrestus."s We are asked to believe thatSuetonius thought Christus was actually in Rome instigating disturbances (in 41 CEll, whereas in fact Jews were arguing abclUt the significance of the Judean person
5 But he knows how to spell "Christ!ani" (Nero 16.2), and his mends Tacitus (Ann. 15.44) and Pliny (Ep. lO.96-97) know how to spell both "Chrisms" and "Christiani."
38
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Christus. It is not sure whether Suetonius means that all Jews were expelled or only some, when it happened, or when some might have returned. The four other ancient sources do not clarify matters. It seems probable that when Philo in 41 CE writes of Augustus that "he never ejected them from Rome ... nor prevented them from meeting" (Leg. 157), it was with an eye to Claudius's actual or contemplated measures against the Jews (Slingerland 1997: 90,96). Acts 18:2 says that "all the Jews" were expelled,6 yet in Acts 28:22 the Roman Jews know nothing of a Christian "sect" in Rome, much less that they were the cause of such tragedy for the Jews in Rome. In the third century Dio Cassius
(Hist. 60.6.6-7) says explicitly that Claudius did not expel the Jews (there were too many) but only ordered them in 41 not to hold meetings. Finally Orosius
(Hist. 7.6.15-16) in the fifth century gives a date (49 CE) more compatible with Acts and many modems, but he appeals for this to the authority of Josephus, who (at least in our manuscripts) is completely silent about the whole event! Orosius also was the beginning of the modern understanding of Suetonius, in correcting the spelling to "Christus" and saying that the Jews were "agitating against Christ," i.e., resisting the gospel. 7 We should not follow his example. What then did Suetonius mean? After many years of dissatisfaction with my own speculations and those of others, I have finally found a convincing answer. After a very thorough philological analysis, H. Dixon Slingerland (1997;
167) concludes that the sentence must be understood as follows: "Chrestus being the cause, Claudius expelled from Rome the continuously rebelling Jews." He is able to put this action into the context of a persistent pattern of hostility of the Julio,Claudian emperors toward the Jews of Rome. The well~known (to the ancients, not to us!) Chrestus played a similar role for Claudius as Sejanus did for Tiberius. If we can escape the prejudice derived from Acts that Jews in fact tended to be troublemakers, we can see that the phrase "continuously rebelling" is an expression of Suetonius's own views. It is probable that Claudius took action at least twice to suppress Judaism in Rome, an important part of Roman Jewish history but not linked to the history of the early Roman church.
6
Leon (1960; 135·36) estimates the Jewish population in Rome at the time of Augustus to have been 40,000-50,000. 7 In terms of the history of interpretation, one could compare Ambrosiaster (Rom. prologue), who only a generation earlier maintained that the early Roman church originated in the preaching of Roman Jewish Christians. See also the Marcionite prologue to Romans.
READING THE TEXT AND DIGGING THE PAST
39
4. Inferences from the Letter Framework in Romans Modern commentaries often speak about the "double character" of the audience of Romans. On the one hand the letter framework apparently addresses the audience as Gentile believers, and on the other the body of the letter (1: 16-15: 13) seems to be a debate with Judaism, a defence of Paul's lawfree gospel over against Judaism. Since the latter is the point of contention, we shall look here only at the former. I understand that the letter framework is found in the exordium (1: 1-15) and the peroration (15: 14-16:16,21-24) (Wuellner 1991; Dunn 1987).8 The explicit audience is very clear: "we have received grace, i.e., apostleship, for [bringing about] obedience to [God's] faithfulness for the sake of his name among all the Gentiles, among whom also are ye, called ofJesus Christ" (1:56) j "in order that I might also have some fruit among you as among the other Gentiles" (1:13); "the grace given to me to be a [priestly] minister of Christ Jesus to the Gentiles, acting as priest for the gospel of God, in order that the sacrifice consisting of Gentiles might be acceptable [to God]" (15: 15-16). How is this to be reconciled with what has been assumed to be a debate with Judaism in the body of the letter? One way is to note Paul's planned visit to Jerusalem (15:25) and his apprehension about how he might be received there by both Jews and Jewish Christians (15 :31). Given that preoccupation, the letter is then to be read as a kind of dry run of what Paul plans to say in Jerusalem. Another is
to
note the planned visit to Spain, with Rome's help
(15:24), and to think of the letter as an extensive self-recommendation to defend himself against earlier Jewish calumnies and thus to enlist Roman help for a Spanish mission. Another is to point out that five Jewish Christians are included among those greeted by Paul (16:3,7, 11). But of these two arc apostles (Andronicus and Junia) and two are long-standing associates (Prisca and Aquila), hardly people who need to be lectured to by the contents of Romans. Based partly on an indication of up to five house churches in Rome (16:5,10.11,14, 15), but mostly on the references to the "strong" and the "weak" in 14: 1-15:6, the most common assumption is that "ethnic issues" (Walters 1993) are a major concern of the letter. This needs to be tested by an analysis of the body of the letter.
8 While it is important not to separate chapter 16 from the rest of the letter, I have omitted two interpolations here.
40
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
5. Archaeology and the Origins of Roman Christianity Social history of the ancient church and synagogue, including extensive use of archaeology, has made great progress recently by emancipating itselffrom some theological presuppositions. Apart from the beginning assumption that he needs to explain how the earliest Roman Christians became independent of the synagogue (rather than whether they needed to do so), Peter Lampe's hook on the social history of Christians in Rome in the first two centuries remains a monumental contribution (Lampe 1989). Graydon Snyder has taught us to enter into the life of ordinary pre-Constantinian Chrisrians through his fine presentation of their art, architecture and inscriptions (Snyder 1985). Michael White has done extensive work on early Christian worship places (White 199697). There is of course much more work that cannot be listed here. The situation is similar with respect to the archaeology of ancient Jewish Rome. The approach of the classical study by Leon (1960) has now been much refined by Rutgers (1995). He is able to show that Roman Jews were neither isolated from nor assimilated to their neighbours, but were very much at home in their environment (see also Snyder 1998). Peter Richardson has done extensive work on ancient synagogues, including in Rome (1996; 1998a; 1998b). 6. Conclusion
In spite of my appreciation for aU this fine work, I cannot find that it casts any light on the origins of Roman Christianity. Even Paul does not think he is "build ling] on someone else's foundation" when he writes to and plans to visit Rome (15:20). While the letter has much to say about the relation of the Roman Gentile believers to Jews and Judaism in general, there is no hint of the presence of Jewish believers in Rome, even in places where one might expect it (11: 1). Tacitus knew of a large number of people called Christians in Rome in 64 eE and does not confuse them with Jews, even though he knows that the movement began with a certain Christ earlier in Judea (Ann. 15.44). What Wayne Meeks says in general about Pauline Christians and Judaism applies especially to Rome: there is remarkably little in the Pauline letters to suggest any continuing contact between the Christian groups and the organized Jewish communities in
READING THE TEXT AND DIGGING THE PAST
41
their cities.... Theologically it is correct to say that the scriptures and traditions of Judaism are a central and ineffaceable part of the Pauline Christian identity. SociaUy, however, the Pauline groups were never a sect of Judaism. They organized their lives independently from the Jewish associations of the cities where they were founded, and apparently, so far as the evidence reveals, they had little or no interaction with the Jews .... The scriptures and traditions from Judaism played a major part in the beliefs and practices of Pauline Christianity, yet the identity of the Pauline groups was not shaped by having once been within a Jewish context. (Meeks 1985:105,106, ]08)
This general impression seems to be correct. It may be that we can be more specific. We are back at our original starting point: if there is nothing outside Romans to indicate clearly who the first audience was, then we are completely dependent on the body of the letter itself. Rhetorical criticism has the potential to increase our understanding considerably. If we have difficulty in characterizing the letter's empirical audience, a rhetorical-critical perspective can indeed discover the implied audience embedded in the text itself. Two remarkable recent books are able to use this approach very successfully: Neil Elliott's The Rhetoric
of Romans (1990) and Stanley Stowers's A Rereading of
Romans (1994). As is to be expected, they do not agree on many of the details, but they both cast fresh light on how the letter functions. Most important for our discussion, both are very firm in insisting that the implied audience must definitely be Gentile. The letter has much to say about Jews, scripture, the law, and the election oflsrael, but always in terms ofhow Gentile Christians should understand their relationship to them. Given this fixed starting point. it might now be possible to resolve the much debated question of the purpose of Romans (Donfried 1991; Wedderburn 1988; jervis 1991). But that can wait for another day.
42
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
References Dever, William G. 1992 "Archaeology, Syro-Palestinian and Biblical." In David Noel Freedman (ed.-in-cruet), The Anchor Bible Dictionary, 1. 354-67. New York: Doubleday. Donfried, Karl P. 1991 The Romans Debate: Revised and Expanded Edition. Peabody: Hendrickson. Dunn, James D. G. 1987 "Paul's Epistle to the Romans: An Analysis of Structure and Development." In Wolfgang Haase (ed.) , Aufstieg und Niedergang der romischen Welt, 2.25.4.2842-89. Berlin: De Gruyter. Elliott, Neil 1990 The Rhetoric of Romans: Argumentative Constraint and Strategy and Paul's Dialogue with Judaism. Sheffield: JSOT Press. Frend, William H. C. 1996 The Archaeology of Early Christianity: A History. Minneapolis: Fortress. Gaston, Lloyd "Faith in Romans 12 in the Light of the Common Life of the Roman 1998 Church." In Julian V. Hills er a!. (eds.), Common Life in the Early Church: Essays Honoring Graydon F. Snyder, 258-64. Harrisburg: Trinity Press International. Golb, Norman "The Problem of Origin and Identification of the Dead Sea Scrolls." 1980 Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 124: 1-24. Jervis, L. Ann The Purpose of Romans: A Comparative Letter Structure-Investigation. 1991 Sheffield: JSOT Press. Kraabel, A. Thomas 1982 "The Roman Diaspora: Six Questionable Assumptions." Journal of Jewish Studies 33: 445-64. Lampe, Peter [19871 Die stadtromischen Christen in denersten beidenJahrhunderten: 1989 Untersuchungen zur Sozialgeschichte. Second ed. TGbingen: Mohr. Leon, Harry J. 1960 The Jews of Ancient Rome. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America.
READING THE
TEXT AND DIGGING THE PAST
43
MacMullen, Ramsay "The Unromanized in Rome." In Shaye J. D. Cohen and Ernest S. 1993 Frerichs (eds.), Diasporas in Antiquity, 47-64. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Maier, Harry O.
1991
The Social Setting of the Ministry as Reflected in the Writings of Hermas, Clement and Ignatius. Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press.
Meeks, Wayne A.
1983 1985
The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul. New Haven: Yale University Press. "Breaking Away: Three New Testament Pictures of Christianity's Separation from the Jewish Communities." In Jacob Neusner and Ernest S. Frerichs (eds.), "To See Ourselves as Others See Us": Christians, Jews, "Others" in Late Antiquity, 93-115. Chico: Scholars Press.
Osiek, Carolyn
1983
Rich and Poor in the Shepherd of Hennas: An Exegetical-Social Investigation. Washington: Catholic Biblical Association of America.
Packer, J. E. 1967
"Housing and Population in Imperial Ostia and Rome." Journal of Roman Studies 57: 280-95. Richardson, Peter 1996 "Early Synagogues as Collegia in the Diaspora and Palestine." InJohn S. Kloppenborg and Stephen O. Wilson (eds.), Voluntary Associations in the Graeco-Roman World, 90-109. London/New York: Routledge. "Augustan-Era Synagogues in Rome." In Karl P. Donmed and Peter 1998a Richardson (eds.), Judaism and Christianity in First-Century Rome, 1729. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. 1998b "Architectural Transitions from Synagogues and House Churches to Purpose-Built Churches." In Hills et al., Common Life in the Early
Church,373-89. Rutgers, Leonard Victor
The Jews in ute Ancient Rome: Evidence of Cultural Interaction in the Roman Diaspora. Leiden: Brill. Slingerland, H. Dixon 1995
Claudian Policymaking and the Early Imperial Repression 0/ Judaism at Rome. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Snyder, Graydon F. 1985 Ante Pacem: Archaeological Evidence of Church Ufe Before Constantine. 1997
Macon; Mercer University Press.
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
1998
"The Interaction ofJews with Non-Jews in Rome." In Donfried and Richardson, Judaism and Christianity in First-Century Rome, 69-90. Stowers, Stanley K. 1994 A Rereading of Romans: Justice, Jews, and Gentiles. New Haven: Yale University Press. Theissen, Gerd 1982 The Social Setting of Pauline Christianity. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. Walters, James C. 1993 Ethnic Issues in Paul's Letter to the Romans. Valley Forge: Trinity Press International. Wedderburn, A. J. M. 1988 The Reasons for Romans. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. White, L. Michael 1996-97 The Social Origins of Christian Architecture. 2 vols. Valley Forge: Trinity Press International. 1998 "Synagogue and Society in Imperial Ostia: Archaeological and Epigraphic Evidence." In Donfried and Richardson, Judaism and
Christianity in First-Century Rome, 30-68. Wuellner, Wilhelm 1991 "Paul's Rhetoric of Argumentation in Romans: An Alternative to the Donfried-Karris Debate Over Romans." In Donfried, The Romans Debate, 128-46.
4 PETER IN THE MIDDLE: GALATIANS 2:11,21 L. ANN JERVIS
As Paul tells the story, at Antioch Cephas! was caught in the middle between two conflicting views. One view accepted Jewish believers in Christ eating with Gentile believers, another did not. Until the arrival from Jerusalem of the "men from James." Peter and the rest of the Jewish believers had eaten with Gentiles , (Gal 2: 12). ~ After the Jerusalem delegation came, Peter and the others stopped this practice. Barring acceptance of Paul's explanation of the reason for Cephas's equivocation-that he was a hypocrite who acted out of fear (2: 12~ 13)-the question before us is: what power did each position have for Peter so that he would be tom between them? That is, what was it about the opinions of Paul and the men from James which meant that Peter was caught in the middle of the Antiochean controversy? Several years ago Peter Richardson turned his attention to sorting out the issues in the Antiochean controversy (1980). He concluded that Peter and Paul shared a similar understanding of the need for accommodation, but differed over their interpretation of how to apply this principle in the circumstances at Antioch. I have chosen to continue work on this passage in order to pay tribute to the excellence of Professor Richardson's scholarship and his generous capaciry for encouraging his admirers to chart their own course. I suggest here that at one point Peter and Paul agreed over a type of law observance for Jewish believers but at Antioch came to disagree over whether this allowed for sympathy with Pharisaism.
Despite the ancient ttadition and modern discussion suggesting that Cephas is a different person from the apostle Peter, I will understand Cephas to be the Aramaic name for Jesus' disciple. Peter. 2 In contrast to Richardson (1980: 354), who considers that the "other Jews" are nonChristian Jews.
46
TEXT AND ARTIFACr
1. The Persuasiveness of the Position of the Men from James
1.1 The Concerns and Identity of the Men from James Paul describes the men from James as ,OUI,; i:J<:'1tEPl 'tol.nil,;. English translations often convey the sense that these people were on a circumcising campaign. For instance, the Revised Standard Version (1971) has "the circumcision party," the New Revised Standard Version (1989) "the circumcision faction," the New International Version (1978) "the circumcision group," and the New American Standard Bible (1995) "the party of the circumcision." The phrase is simply "those of the circumcision," that is, Jews, which, in an interesting pairing, is how both Luther in the German translation of his commentary on Galatians (1531) and the New Jerusalem Bible (1989) understand it. The phrase should be read in the context of the preceding passage, in which 1i 1tEP1'tOIl11 refers to the Jews (2:7). In 2:12 Paul does not say that the men from James came to Antioch in order to circumcise, in contrast to how he describes his opponents in Galatia (6:12).lt is most likely, then, that 'tOUI,; EK 1tEP1'tOIlTl<;
refers simply to the ethnic identity of the men sent by James.
Having just stated that it is to the Jews that Peter was called to preach (2:7), Paul's clarification that the men from James are 'tOUI,; EK 1t€pl. 'tOil ill:; implicitly draws the Galatians's attention to Peter's investment in being respected by other Jews. What is clear about these people is that they disapproved of Peter and the other Jews eating with Gentiles. New Testament scholars have typically assumed that observant first-century Jews would have shared their disapproval. Louis Martyn, for instance, comments that the views of the men from James reflected the opinion of the Jerusalem church, which in turn reflected the practice of Jews who were "truly observant of the Law" and so ate "in accordance with Jewish food laws" (1997: 232; cf. Witherington 1998: 160). The opinion of such scholars is that observant Jews would not have shared a table with Gentiles. The persuasiveness of the position of the men from James is then seen to be self-evident: keeping the JeWish food laws was synonymous with eating separately from Gentiles. There are two problems with this explanation, both having to do with its generality. First, the evidence we have indicates that observant Jews of this period did occasionally eat with Gentiles. Second, such an explanation does not take note of the various ways the law
47
PETER IN THE MIDDLE
was observed in the first century. Well before modern scholarship on early Judaism Eusebius noted that "there were ... various opinions among the circumcision" (Eccl. Hist. 4.22, 27). In coming to a sharper understanding of the persuasive power of the men from James we need to be more specific about the type of Judaism they reflected.
1.2 Following the Food Laws and Eating Separately from Gentiles Before proceeding it is important to decide whether the meals that concerned the men from James were everyday or holy meals. While some argue that the meals at Antioch were "love,feasts," and therefore both ordinary and eucharistic Oewett 1994: 248), such an argument needs the support of Acts and other parts of the New Testament. Since Paul does not make clear that everyday meals were also thought of as the Lord's Supper, it is reasonable to assume that as we interpret Galatians 2: 12 we must make a choice between the two kinds of meals. Several have assumed that the meals that Peter was in the habit of eating with Gentiles were the Lord's Supper (Lindars 1988: 67; E. P. Sanders 1990a: 283). If that were the case, these meals would almost certainly have been considered holy. 3 There are, however, reasons to think that the meals were not eucharistic. First, whereas in other places Paul refers clearly to the Lord's Supper (1 Cor 11: 20,21), here he does not. To contend that the meals were eucharistic is to argue from silence. Second, given that Paul elsewhere connects eating the Lord's Supper with the principle of social harmony among the participants (1 Cor 11: 17,34), we might assume that if the meals at Antioch had been eucharistic he would have appealed to this principle in service of his position. Admittedly, this is now an argument from silence, but it is important to ponder
the significance of the absence of a potentially effective argument on
Paul's part. Furthermore, we appear
to
have evidence for another situation in which
Jewish and Gentile believers shared ordinary meals. Romans 14 indicates that Gentile and Jewish believers at Rome had close enough social contact that they
3 By the end of the second century we know that even some outside the Christian community understood the eucharistic meal w be equivalent to Passover. Hcracleon (ca. 170) charged Christians with "worshipping as Jews" and of celebrating the Jewish Passover in the eucharist (Origen, Camm. in}oann. 10.19); see Pagels (1972).
48
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
knew what each other ate in the regular course of life. Presumably these believers were eating together. In seeking to determine the persuasive power of the men from James our attention is turned, then, to quotidian matters rather than the special practices ofJews. All Jews would presumably have agreed that holy meals must be eaten in purity and only with the circumcised. The Jewish tradition spoke with a unified voice concerning the connection between eating holy food and being circumcised. There were five kinds of holy meals, one of which was Passover. The Bible's injunction about the eating of Passover makes it clear that in the case of a holy meal none but the circumcised could participate (Exod 12:4348). The tradition did discuss how those who were sympathetic to the Jewish faith might eat a holy meal such as Passover. It did not, however, allow for any but the circumcised to partake. Rather, the debate was over how long it was necessary to wait after circumcision before it was appropriate to eat holy food. The Shammaites determined that a man had to wait only one day, the Hillelites that he had to wait seven. According to m. Pesa~im 8.8: If a man became a proselyte the day before Passover, the School of Shammai say: He immerses himself and eats his Passover sacrifice in the evening; while the School of Hillel say: He that separates himself from the foreskin is as one that separates himself from a grave. (quoted from Alon
1977: 150) Corpse impurity lasted seven days. As we shall see, however, quotidian Jewish practice appears to have been less strict in matters of table fellowship. New Testament scholarship on this passage often equates dietary purity with segregation from Gentiles on the presumption that this was both what Torah required and how Jews enacted the law. There is, however. no law requiring Jews to eat onty with other Jews (Segal 1986: 112; 1987: 175; E. P. Sanders 1990b: 171). Moreover, those traditions regulating what to do with food touched by Gentiles, for instance in Abodah Zarah, give evidence that Jews might eat in close proximity to Gentiles while keeping their dietary laws. The Mishnah's prescriptions about how to maintain the law when in contact with Gentiles and/or Gentile food (e.g., Erub. 6.1) are evidence that Jews did not isolate themselves (Urbach 1981: 282). For one thing, the population density of the ancient city (cf. Stark 1991: 189,98) and the closeness of village life would have made social contact between Jew and Gentile inevitable. Paula
PETER IN THE MIDDLE
49
Fredriksen observes: "Gentiles and Jews in the first-century Diaspora and later would have eaten together" (1991: 554; also Tomson 1990: 233; E. P. Sanders 1990b: 178). The synagogue at Sardis had inscribed on it the names of men (usually presumed to be Jewish) who had fulfilled vows, some of whom are called ~OuAE1.)'t'ai
and two of whom are called citizens of Sardis, .Eaplhavoi (Rajak
1985: 256). Here we have evidence for people who were comfortable in the polis and in the synagogue and who would presumably have eaten food in connection with both the city's festivals and the synagogue's gatherings. That is, we may presume that the social position of such Jews called for them to eat with Gentiles. Adolf Buchler cites a Tannaitic story about R. Meir, who tells of how a Gentile of his town arranged a banquet to which he invited all the elders, including him. R. Meir relates how sumptuous he found the meal. Buchler comments: "[E]ven ifR. Meir ate nothing, or only some fruit, at that table, how did he sit in the company of the Gentiles, and touch any food which was defiled by the handling of the Gentile attendants?" (1926: 53). Buchler's answer is that in ordinary circumstances there was no problem with Gentile and Jew sharing a table. The food laws could be kept while eating with others who did not follow Jewish dietary restrictions (Banks 1975: 111). We also know that there were some Gentiles-the godfearers-who expressed significant interest in the Jewish community and who were welcomed by the Jews (Collins 1985; Novak 1983). The sources suggest that such godfearers adopted Jewish customs, including Jewish dietary restrictions Oosephus, Apian 2.282; Juvenal, Sat. 14.96-106). If this is the case, then in a situation where Jews and godfearers ate together they may even have agreed on what to eat. All of this suggests that it was possible in the first-century Jewish world both to be observant of the law and occasionally to share a table with Gentiles.
1.3 The Type of Judaism Reflected by the Men from James Typical explanations of the position of .ou.;; £.K 1tEPl.Olltl,;; suggest that Jews in general had a concern about eating with Gentiles. As we have seen, it appears that now and then, at least, Jews ate with Gentiles and followed the dietary restrictions while doing so. We need, therefore, to ask whether there
50
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
might have been a type ofJudaism that would have equated observing the food laws with separate table fellowship. It might be argued that the Antioch incident is presented polemically by Paul, since the story of it may have been that 'tou~ eK 1tEpt 't'of.L~~ were only concerned about the food laws and did not require separation from Gentiles; Paul may have portrayed them as concerned about Jews and Gentiles eating together in order to present their observance of dietary restrictions as divisive for the church (their scruples result in the separation of Gentile andJew). We cannot, however, discount his presentation without a convincing reason to do so. The only compelling reason would be if we could find no evidence for some first-century Jews requiring separate table fellowship in order to be fully obedient to the food laws. Using Josephus's categories we ask: what Jewish group is reflected in the men from James's concern that everyday eating take place in ritual purity? The options before us are: Sadducees, Pharisees, Essenes (War 2.119-66; Ant. 13. 171-73; 18.11-23) and the Fourth Philosophy (Ant. 18.23-25). We can quickly dispense with the first and last options. What little can be gleaned about Sadducean views and social practices does not suggest that their agenda included enforcing a strict observance of the dietary restrictions. This is not to say that they did not obey the food laws. In fact, given their traditional stance toward Torah, they undoubtedly did. It is rather that they seem not to have been activists or innovators in this regard. From our vantage point they do not appear as a group interested in having others share their views. In Josephus, the New Testament and the rabbinic literature, the Sadducees are presented on the opposite side from the Pharisees, those who actively and innovatively sought to obey, among other things, the food laws. The men from James, unlike the Sadducees, appear as energetic advocates of their brand oflaw observance. The Fourth Philosophy can be dispensed with for almost exactly the same reasons: we know very little about adherents to this group, and what we do know does not suggest that their concern was with propagating strict observance of the food laws. We are left with the option of either the Pharisees or the Essenes as the group that influenced the men from James. The Essenes present a strong possibility. According to Josephus they ate communal meals in ritual purity
(Ant. 18.22), and only the initiated could eat with the community (War 2.138). The Essenes were concerned both for the food laws and for separation.
PETER IN THE MIDDLE
51
The disadvantage of choosing the Essenes as the most likely influence on the men from James is that both Josephus's portrayal of them and the evidence of the Dead Sea Scrolls (presuming that it was the Essenes who were at Qumran) suggest that they separated themselves from Gentiles at all times, not just at meals. Galatians 2: 11-14 indicates that the men from James were asking Peter and the rest of the Jews to separate themselves from Gentiles only at meals. The advantage in selecting the Pharisees is that they sought to keep the food laws in the midst of village and urban life. While the Pharisees did not entirely restrict social contact with Gentiles (E. P. Sanders 1990a: 242), their ideal in regards to eating appears to have been that everyday meals be taken in ritual purity. Jacob Neusner dubs the Pharisees a "table-fellowship sect" (1973: 80), contending that one of the main features of the Pharisaic group was their concern with the dietary regulations. The vision of the Pharisees was that meals in the homes of their adherents be eaten in accordance with the dietary restrictions, presumably separately from Gentiles. It is easy to see such a concern reflected in
.oue; eK 1tEpl.Oj.1ftc;.
Another reason we might choose the Pharisees rather than the Essenes as an influence on the men from James is that there is corroborative evidence for a group of early Christian believers who were identified with them (Acts 15:5). And when Luke mentions Pharisaic believers it is in connection with a controversy over Gentiles following the law. On the other hand, there is no unequivocal reference to Christian believers being identified with the Essenes. These reasons suggest that the group of Jews that the men from James most closely resemble is the Pharisees-a group within first-century Judaism that connected dietary laws with eating apart from Gentiles in ordinary life. The question now arises: why would Peter and the rest of the Jews at Antioch have been influenced by such a Pharisaic perspective? What made the men from James's Pharisaic interpretation of the law in matters of food so compelling to Peter and the others? The question in fact goes further back: why would any believers in Jesus (whether Peter or the men from James) be influenced by Pharisaic attitudes? This question presents itself because by and large the gospels portray Jesus as one who took a stance on the law different from that of the Pharisees. Not only did the New Testament Jesus accept the authority of Torah while rejecting Pharisaic halakah (BockmuehI1996: 264), but his interpretation of scripture
52
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
might best be characterized not as Pharisaic but as prophetic. Jesus appears to have redefined ideas about election, holiness, purity and piety on the basis of his "claim of access to God's spirit" (Chilton and Evans 1994: 334). The New Testament Jesus interpreted scripture prophetically, which meant, among other things, that he challenged ideas about who were among the elect (e.g., Matt 22: 1-14/lLuke 14: 15-24; see J. A. Sanders 1974: 254, 264), and took a different position from the Pharisees on matters such as almsgiving and fasting. Jesus had a prophetic rather than a Pharisaic interpretation of scripture (Chilton and Evans 1994: 296). That is, he interpreted the law in light of the new age (E. P. Sanders 1985: 269), not for the purpose of maintaining the tradition. Jesus' willingness to associate with "sinners," apart from their conversion to obeying the law, challenged the Pharisaic interpretation of the law, which called for the conversion of sinners to law obedience. We may attempt to explain the importance of Pharisaic interpretation of the law in the early Jerusalem church on the basis of the influence of Pharisaism within Judaism at large. This is not to suggest that most Jews were quasi-Pharisees (Moore 1927-30: 1.70), but rather that, despite their small numbers, the Pharisees were held in high regard by many (Mason 1991: 375). According to Anthony Saldarini the Pharisees were not a large group, but they were influential. Using G. E. Lenski's sociological categories for analyzing agrarian empires, Saldarini categorizes the Pharisees as part of the "retainer class," which made up the top 5 percent of the population (1988: 39). As such they were a group with a strong social impact. They were regarded as patrons and helped to shape the course of political and religious affairs. The social importance of the Pharisees and the respect that was accorded theif obedience to the law, even by Jesus (Matt 5:20), may go a long way to explaining why they may have influenced the early Jerusalem church, including Peter. Furthermore, while it appears that Jesus both criticized the Pharisees and defined some aspects of holiness in an un Pharisaic way, the gospels present him as an interpreter, not as an opponent of the law (E. P. Sanders 1990a: 9394). He was almost certainly not a Pharisee himself (Westerholm 1978: 128), yet he seems to have displayed a "certain ambivalence" (Banks 1975: 237) to law observance, both respecting and redefining it. Some have explained this tension by suggesting that Jesus was raised in the Pharisaic tradition and that his prophetic interpretation came from within a Pharisaic framework (Wild 1985: 116).
PETER IN THE MIDDLE
53
Simply put, Peter may have been influenced by a Pharisaic interpretation of the law because such an understanding of law observance was prominent in the Jerusalem church. While from our vantage point it is easy to see how Jesus' disregard for the Pharisaic restrictions on table fellowship led to Paul's and others' willingness to include Gentiles both in the faith (Dunn 1988: 283; Davies 1984: 272) and at the table, the incident at Antioch shows that in the first generation of the Christian movement the influence of the Pharisees was compelling. It may be, also, that Jesus' own regard for and contentions with the Pharisees gave his followers reason to take the Pharisees seriously, or that the New Testament's anti-Pharisaic rhetoric reflects the beliefs of only some of Jesus' followers. 2. The Persuasiveness of Paul's Rebuke Whether or not Paul's position on law observance won the day in Antioch, it does seem clear that it was a position that Peter had shared until the men from James arrived in town. At one point Paul's position on table fellowship was persuasive to Peter. What made this position attractive? Our answer must rely almost entirely on Paul's record of his words to Peter. Paul begins by pointing out that Peter has changed his behaviour. According to Paul, Peter stood condemned (Ka.'t'qvwollevoc;). As Paul presents it, he does not have to teach Peter something new, only to call him to account for what he already knows. What Peter knew is, to paraphrase Paul, that "we who are born Jews and not Gentile sinners know that a person is not made righteous through works oflaw unless such are done in accordance with the faithfulness of]esus Christ [to the law]" (2: 15-16a). This paraphrase of the understanding shared by Peter and Paul as presented in Galatians 2: 15-16a relies on two translation decisions. The first decision is to translate i;(xv 1111 as exceptive and the second is to translate 1t(O't'EWC; Xpto't'ou as a subjective genitive. Translating UtV 1111 as exceptive (Le., "not ... unless ... " rather than "not ... but ... ") admittedly goes somewhat against Greek idiom (Gaston 1986: 39), but it is nevertheless a valid grammatical reading (BDF 480[6]; Dunn 1990a: 189). And, as we shall see, in concert with a subjective genitive reading of m:o't'Ewc; XPlO"WU, translating the construction this way allows for a sensible reading of the nature of Paul's appeal. Paul says that Jewish believers
54
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
in Jesus like him and Peter know that the only acceptable kind of law observance is that evidenced by Jesus. This brings us to the second translation decision. I, along with many others (e.g., Goodenough 1968; R. N. Longenecker 1974: 147; Hays 1983; Gaston 1986: 40; Wallis 1995), regard the phrase niOtEWC;; Xpl.o'tofi as a subjective genitive (Le., faith "of' rather than "in" Christ). Since, by and large, my reasons for adopting this position accord with the various grammatical and contextual reasons adduced by proponents of this reading, it would be redundant here to rehearse the reasons. 4 My reasons for this choice do not include that advanced
by A. G. Hebert (1955) and Thomas Torrance (1957), that the Hebrew idea of faithfulness underlies Paul's term nionc;;. I am convinced by James Barr that the proposed grammatical evidence has wrongly confused theological and linguistic argumentation (1961: 161-205), and presumed that a Greek word could be "dominated by a Hebrew concept" (175). Beyond the arguments that others have advanced for a subjective genitive reading, such a translation is attractive here (as well as at Gal 3:22; Phil 3:9; Rom 3:22, 26) because it brings these verses more in line with the central message of Paul-that believers are "in Christ." A subjective genitive translation properly lessens (while not obliterating) the focus on the act of human faith and consequently on justification by faith as central to Paul's thought. Belief itself comes from being in Christ (Wallis 1995: 220). My paraphrase further relies on a particular understanding of the meaning for Paul of Jesus Christ's faith. In general, when Paul uses this phrase he does so as part of his overriding understanding that believers owe everything to being "in Christ." At Galatians 3:22, Romans 3:22 and Philippians 3:9 nion,
Xplo"tofi denotes Christ's faith, which becomes the faith of believers as believers in him, with the consequence that believers become righteous as he is (Williams 1987: 446; Hooker 1989: 339; Nickelsburg 1991: 355-65; Wallis 1995). In Galatians 2:16 Paul uses 1tiow;Xpto'tou both in accordance with his usual way of understanding Christ's faith, and also so as to resonate with the understanding of other Jewish Christians. While reminding Peter of what he knows, Paul touches on a shared Jewish-Christian belief about Jesus' faith.
4 See Wallace (1996; 115-19) for a helpful summary of grammatical reasons on both sides of the argumem, and for a good bibliography.
55
PETER IN THE MIDDLE
Others have also read Paul's words in Galatians 2: 15·16a to be affirming an understanding shared byaporuon ofearly Jewish Christianity (Dunn 1990a: 189; 1990b: 155; B. W. Longenecker 1998: 101~1O3): Jesus' faithfulness to the law defines law observance for those who follow him. This viewpoint was expressed most effectively in the generation after Paul (perhaps also as a result of the Antiochean situation) by the Gospel of Matthew. In Matthew we see reflected a Jewish.Christian community committed to keeping Torah because it understood Jesus as the one who correctly interpreted the law (Saldarini 199 h 41 *42; Lindars 1988: 67; Zeitlin 1988; 105). For instance, in Matthew Jesus is presented as the correct interpreter of the law who nonetheless includes Gentiles without circumcision (Ben 1991: 258-75). Both Paul in Galatians and the Matthean community are in conflict with Pharisaism. Matthew is in conflict with Pharisaic Jews who have not put their faith in Jesus (Richardson 1%9: 194); while Paul is in conflict with Pharisaic Jews who have (the men from James), In both cases the Pharisaic viewpoint is regarded as problematic because either it has not understood that a fresh interpretation of the law has been given by Jesus, or it has understood it differently. For Matthew, Jesus' welcoming rather than separating from sinners (Matt 9:10-1 1; 11:19; n:31 32) sheds new light on law observance (Saldarini 1994: 139) I and is at odds with Pharisaic interpretation. Paul can work alongside a type ofJewish Christianity that considers that Jesus'law observance demonstrated a new way of being boly. It is to this that he wants to caU Peter back. It is from Pharisaic Jewish Christianity that Paul wants to separate Peter. Paul's own position is somewhat different from the Jewish Christianity that he commends in 2:15-16a. He clarifies his own understanding in the rest of Galatians 2, where he argues that it is through participation in Christ's fuithfulness and Christ's death that a believer, whether JeworOentlle, becomes righteous as Christ is righteous. Therefore. the law is 110 longer in effect as 9 means of righteousness. At 2: 18 Paul addresses charges that must have been specit1c to' himselfand not Peter at Antioch (note the change to the first person singular). Referring to the church (Gaston 1986: 46-47), Paul states that it is only if he were to allow boundaries between Gentile and Jewish believers to be built up again that he would be transgressing, Either Peter or the men from James may have charged Paul with transgressing the law in encouraging table fellowship 6
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TEXT AND ARTIFACf
between Gentile and Jew. Paul's response signals that he has understood Jesus' prophetic interpretation of the law as providing the new meaning of the law. Christ's way of law observance, in Paul's view, stressed the inclusive love of God. Now disobedience to the law would be to obey the law while discounting the fact that Christ has reshaped the manner and character oflaw observance. Speaking passionately and personally Paul gives his own understanding of the relation of Christ to the law, and its meaning in his life (2: 19,21): his faith in Christ means that Christ lives in him and that he now shares in Christ's death and Christ's faith. 5 For Paul the law is no longer useful, since his understanding of Christ's death is that those who participate in it through faith have a better way of dealing with sin (cf. 5:24). Nevertheless, Paul respects the views of those Jewish Christians who continue in law observance in accordance with Christ's own faithfulness to Torah. In fact, he appeals to this view in his rebuke of Peter. He reminds Peter of what both he and other Jewish Christians believe about the law now that they have believed in the faithfulness of Christ (2:15~16a), presenting the situation at Antioch as one in which Peter himself should have been able to see his own error. In the course of the record of his challenge to Peter, Paul uses the word eeV\KW~ (2:14). This adverb appears only here in Paul. Elsewhere in the New Testament it occurs in the Jewish-Christian writings of Matthew (5:47; 6:7; 18:17) and 3 John (7). The occurrences in Matthew suggest that eeV1.KW~ was a word used in Jewish-Christian rhetoric for shaming believers in Jesus into following Jesus' brand of law observance. It might well be that eeV1.KW~ was a word that Peter had used previously, which Paul turns back against him (others suggest that it was used by the men from James against Peter, and Paul is now using it for his own ends [Tomson 1990: 230; Dunn 1991: 131]). It is clear that the word helps give voice to Paul's opinion that Peter was acting as one outside the law, as prophetically interpreted by Jesus. Given Peter's identity as the apostle to the circumcised (2:7), the one called to proclaim the Messiah and his new interpretation of the law to Jews, Paul's charge has a bite. Peter, Paul is saying, should have known better.
5 Along with others, I consider that the best translation of 2: 20 includes understanding &v n:iO'tEt (w tn toil uiol) 't01) £lEOI) as referring to Christ's faith (Hays 1983: 168).
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3. Summary At Antioch Peter was caught in the middle between a Pharisaic and a prophetic understanding of Jesus' interpretation of the law. While both understandings accepted Jesus as the interpreter of the law, for Jewish believers more influenced by Pharisaism this meant that the law's standards as taught by the Pharisees remained the highest standards of righteousness. The men from James seem to have taken this view. On the other hand, for Jewish Christians who considered that Jesus had a prophetic understanding of the law, it is Jesus' challenge to the Pharisaic standards of righteousness that shaped their own law observance. Those whom Paul commends in the process of challenging Peter-Jewish Christians who could affirm Galatians 2: 15-16a-sought to follow the law in light of Jesus' own faithfulness to it. Paul can work alongside this view, for it recognized that Jesus' understanding of the law made purity rules less important than the principle of welcoming sinners. Paul's own view, as we mentioned, is that Jesus' redefinition of law observance meant that obedience to the law was no longer always necessary. Paul does not, however, expect Peter to agree with him on this. Peter was faced with a legitimate and difficult conundrum at Antioch. And the Christ whom he followed had not made it any easier for him. The incident at Antioch indicates that followers of Jesus Christ became divided over which aspect of Jesus' legal stance was more important: Jesus as an interpreter of the law who took the Pharisees seriously enough for them to become his most intense conversation partners and opponents, or Jesus as a prophetic interpreter of the law with a type of Torah obedience at odds with the Pharisees but consonant with hope for the coming of God's kingdom. It is to Peter's credit that he allowed himself to be sympathetic to both points of view. His position in the middle of the controversy at Antioch demonstrates his allegiance to the one who had had a particularly complex, ambiguous and idiosyncratic form of law observance.
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References Alon, Gedaliah
1977
Jews, Judaism and the Classical World: Studies in Jewish History in the Times of the Second Temple and Talmud. Trans. I. Abrahams. Jerusalem: Magnes.
Banks, Robert J.
1975
Jesus and the Law in the Synoptic Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press. Barr, James 1961 The Semantics of Biblical Language. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Betz, Hans Dieter "The Sermon on the Mount in Matthew's Interpretation." In Birger 1991 A. Pearson (ed.), The Future of Early Christianity: Essays in Honor of Helmut Koester, 258-75. Minneapolis: Fortress. Bockmuehl, Marcus 1996 "Halakah and Ethics in the Jesus Tradition." In John M. G. Barclay and John P. M. Sweet (eds.), Early Christian Thought in Its Jewish Context, 264-78. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Buchler, Adolf "The Levitical Impurity of the Gentile in Palestine Before the Year 1926 70." Jewish Quarterly Review 17: 1-82. Chilton, Bruce and Craig A. Evans 1994 "Jesus and Israel's Scriptures." In Bruce Chilton and Craig A. Evans (cds.), Studying the HistoricalJesus. Evaluations of the State of Current Research, 281-336. Leiden: Brill. Collins, John J. "A Symbol of Otherness: Circumcision and Salvation in the First 1985 Century." In Jacob Neusner and Ernest S. Frerichs (eds.), "To See
Ourselves as Others See Us": Christians, Jews, "Others" in Late Antiquity, 163-86. Chico: Scholars Press. Davies, W. D. "From Schweitzer to Scholem: Reflections on Sabbatai Svi." In 1984 W. D. Davies, Jewish and Pauline Studies, 257-77. Philadelphia: Fortress. Dunn, James D. G. 1988 "Pharisees, Sinners, and Jesus." In Jacob Neusner, Ernest S. Frerichs, Peder Borgen and Richard Horsley (eds.) , The Social World of
Formative Christianity and Judaism: Essays in Tribute to Howard Clark Kee, 264-89. Philadelphia: Fortress.
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1990a
1990b
1991
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"The New Perspective on Paul." In James D. G. Dunn. Jesus. Paul, and the Law: Studies in Mark and Galatians. 183-205. Louisville: WestminsterlJohn Knox. "The Incident at Antioch (Gal. 2.11-18)." In Dunn,Jesus, Paul and
the Law, 129-74. The Partings of the Ways. Between Christianity and]udaism and Their Significance for the Character of Christianity. London: SCM.
Fredriksen, Paula 1991 "Judaism, the Circumcision of Gentiles, and Apocalyptic Hope: Another Look at Galatians 1 and 2." Journal of Theological Studies 42: 532-64. Gaston, Lloyd "Paul and the Law in Galatians 2-3." In Peter Richardson, with 1986 David Granskou (eds.), Anti-Judaism in Early Christianity, Va!. 1: Paul and the Gospels, 37-58. Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. Goodenough, Erwin R. 1968 "Paul and the Hellenization of Christianity." In Jacob Neusner (ed.) , Religions in Antiquity: Essays in Memory ofErwin Ramsdell Goodenough, 35-80. Leiden: Brill. Hays, Richard B. 1983 The Faith ofjesus Christ: An Investigation of the Narrative Substructure of Galatians 3: 1-4: 11. Chico: Scholars Press. Hebert, A. G. 1955 "Faithfulness and 'Faith.'" Theology 58: 373-79. Hooker, Morna D. 1989 "IIII:TII: XPII:TOl'." New Testament Studies 35: 321-42. Jewett, Robert "Gospel and Commensality: Social and Theological Implications of 1994 Galatians 2.14." In L. Ann Jervis and Peter Richardson (eds.), Gospel
in Paul: Studies on Corinthians, Gawtians and Romans for Richard N. Longenecker, 240-52. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Lindars, Barnabas 1988 "All Foods Clean: Thoughts on Jesus and the Law." In Barnabas Lindars (ed.), Law and Religion. Essays on the PWce of the Law in Israel and Early Christianity, 61-67. Cambridge: James Clarke. Longenecker, Bruce W. 1998 The Triumph of Abraham's God: The Transformation of Identity in Galatians. Nashville: Abingdon.
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Longenecker, Richard N. 1974 "The Obedience of Christ in the Theology of the Early Church." In Robert Banks (ed.), Recon.citiationand Hope: New Testament Essays on Atonement and Eschatology Presented to L. L. Morris, 142-52. Exeter: Paternoster. Martyn, J. Louis 1997 Galatians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. New York: Doubleday. Mason, Steve 1991 Flavius Josephus on the Pharisees: A Composition-Critical Study. Leiden/New York: Brill. Moore, George Foot Judaism in the First Centuries of the Christian Era. 2 vols. Cambridge, 1927 -30 MA: Harvard University Press. Neusner, Jacob 1973 From Politics to Piety. The Emergence of Pharisaic Judaism. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall. Nickelsburg, George W. E. 1991 "The Incarnation in Paul: Paul's Solution to the Universal Human Predicament." In Pearson, The Future of Early Christianity, 348-57. Novak, David The Image of the Non-Jew in Judaism. Lewiston/Queenston: Edwin 1983 Mellen. Pagels, Elaine "A Valentinian Interpretation of Baptism and the Eucharist-And 1972 Its Critique of 'Orthodox' Sacramental Theology and Practice." Harvard Theological Review 65: 153-69. Rajak, Tessa "Jews and Christians as Groups in a Pagan World." In Neusner and 1985 Frerichs, "To See Ourselves as Others See Us," 247-62. Richardson, Peter 1969 Israel in the Apostolic Church. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 1980 "Pauline Inconsistency: 1 Corinthians 9: 19-23 and Galatians 2: 11-
14." New Testament Studies 26; 347-62. Saldarini, Anthony J.
1988 1991
Pharisees, Scribes and Sadducees in Palestinian Society. A Sociological Approach. Wilmington: Glazier. "The Gospel of Matthew and Jewish-Christian Conflict." In David L. Balch (ed.), Social Hiltory of the Matthean Community; CrossDisciplinary Approaches, .38-61. Minneapolis: Fortress.
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1994
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Matthew's Christian-Jewish Community. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Sanders, E. P. 1985 1990a 1990b
Jesus and Judaism. London: SCM. Jewish Law from Jesus to the Mishnah: Five Studies. London/ Philadelphia: SCM(frinity Press International. "Jewish Association with Gentiles and Galatians 2: 11-14." In Robert T. Fortna and Beverly R. Gaventa (eds.), The Conversation Continues:
Studies in Paul and John in Honor of]. Louis Martyn, 170-88. Nashville: Abingdon. Sanders, James A. 1974 "The Ethic of Election in Luke's Great Banquet Parable." In James L. Crenshaw and John T. Willis (eds.), Essays in Old Testament Ethics.]' Philip Hyatt, in Memoriam, 245-71. New York: Ktav. Segal, Alan F. Rebecca's Children: Judaism and Christianity in the Roman World. 1986 Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. The Other Judaisms of Late Antiquity. Atlanta: Scholars Press. 1987 Stark, Rodney "Antioch as the Social Situation for Matthew's Gospel." In Balch, 1991 Social History of the Matthean Community, 189-210. Tomson, Peter J. 1990 Paul and the Jewish Law: Halakha in the Letters of the Apostle to the Gentiles. Minneapolis: Fortress. Torrance, Thomas F. 1957 "One Aspect of the Biblical Conception of Faith." Expository Times 68: 111-14. Urbach, Ephraim E. 1981 "Self-Isolation or Self-Affirmation in Judaism in the First Three Centuries: Theory and Practice." In E. P. Sanders, Albert I. Baumgarten and Alan Mendelson (eds.), Jewish and Christian SelfDefinition, Vol. 2: Aspects ofJudaism in the Greco-Roman Period, 26998. Philadelphia: Fortress. Wallace, Daniel B.
1996
Greek Grammar Beyond the Basics. An Exegetical Syntax of the New Testament. Grand Rapids: Zondervan.
Wallis, Ian O.
1995
The Faith of Jesus Christ in Early Christian Traditions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Westerholm, Stephen 1978 Jesus and Scribal Authority. Lund: Gleerup.
62 Wild, R. A. 1985
TEXT AND ARTIFACf
"The Encounter Between Pharisaic and Christian Judaism: Some Early Gospel Evidence." Novum Testamentum 27: 105-24.
Williams, S. K. "Again Pis tis Christou." Catholic Biblical Quarterly 49: 431-47. 1987 Witherington, Ben, III 1998 Grace in Galatia: A Commentary on Paul's Letter to the Galatians. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Zeitlin, Irving M. 1988 Jesus and the Judaism of His Time. Cambridge: Polity.
5 PHOEBE, THE SERVANT.BENEFACTOR AND GOSPEL TRADITIONS! ROMAN GARRISON
Over the last several years, Peter Richardson has demonstrated a strong interest in Corinth, the relationship between Paul and the various gospel traditions, and the Proto-Luke hypothesis (1984; 1984, with Peter Gooch; 1986; 1987). In this essay I hope to consider these separate themes while looking at the description of Phoebe in Romans 16:1-2: I commend to you our sister, Phoebe, who is a deacon [o~a1Covov] of the church at Cenchreae in order that you might receive her in the Lord as is appropriate to the saints. Help her in whatever she might need for she has been a patroness [1tpoeJ't'a'tlc;] of many, including myself. How could this woman take on the dual role of
It is indeed a privilege to contribute to this volume which honours Peter Richardson. He has given so much; it is appropriate that in even this small way he should now receive. In particular I am grateful for Peter's consistent enthusiasm in the quest for knowledge about Christian origins. He never treats research as a burden but always celebrates it as an opportunity. In this he is a model worthy of imitation.
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Paul himself were familiar with various traditions of Jesus' sayings and that one tradition was particularly influential. I refer to the special Lukan material, one of the building blocks for Proto-Luke. The Proto-Luke hypothesis, though not widely held, has important evidence to support its central claim. Without examining the thesis in detail, it should be noted that many scholars have adopted (and adapted) the traditional Mark-and-Q supposition that underlies much Synoptic research. It is significant, then, that one of the early form critics admitted to being "startled" and ultimately persuaded by B. H. Streeter's suggestion (Taylor 1964: 6). Streeter argued that the combining of Q and L (i.e., the special Lukan tradition), prior to the inclusion of "extracts from Mark and the Birth Stories of Lk. i and ii," was an early edition of the so-called Third Gospel (Streeter 1964). Peter Richardson describes the Proto-Luke hypothesis as the "most imaginative" (by which he means creative and thought-provoking) aspect of B. H. Streeter's theory proposed in The Four Gospels (1987: 301). Vincent Taylor has argued in detail that Proto-Luke originated "in the soil of early Gospel tradition" and provided the foundation for much of Paul's thought (1926: 273). Among the several Jesus traditions available to him, Paul seems to have preferred the special Lukan material. Recognizing this, Richardson claims: "I believe there is a fair bit of evidence for an influence of gospel traditions on Paul, and reciprocally of Pauline views on Luke's redaction. The turning point, as I see it, is the hypothetical document, Proto-Luke" (1986: 243). First Corinthians provides the most compelling· evidence that Paul was at least familiar with some of the sources for the sayings of Jesus (Richardson
1987: 302; Richardson and Gooch 1984: 42; cf. Dungan 1971). This is most compelling in a passage such as 1 Corinthians 9: 13-14 (Richardson 1994: 102), but is surely implicit in Paul's reference to the tradition of the Lord's Supper, which is "very similar" to the longer text of Luke's account (Richardson 1987: 305). Joachim Jeremias even speaks of the "Pauline-Lukan tradition" of the Eucharist (1966: 115, 133, 186). Consistent with the Pro to-Luke hypothesis is that Luke made use of a Last Supper tradition that was independent of Mark's report, and that Paul was familiar with this account (Jeremias 1966: 97 -99). It is reasonable then to conjecture that Luke 22:24·27 is independent of Mark and originates from the special Lukan source (Taylor 1926: 41-42; cf. Nelson 1994: 126-31). Paul and
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the Corinthians were familiar with the logiort; this raises the distinct possibility that Phoebe, as an example of a servant-benefactor, may have been influenced by the saying found in Luke 22:24-27; And an argument arose among them concerning which of them was the greatest. He said to them. however, "The Gentile kings lord it over their subjects and are called benefactors [€u€pyi't"(u}. But not so with you. Instead the greatest among you ought to become like the youngest, and the leader as one who serves [6 ouxKovClv). For who is greater, the one at table Ot the one who serves [0 ()UX1I:ovwv)? I, however, am among you as one who serves [6ou:ncovwv]." The hostility of early Christianity toward material wealth is evident in the Synoptic gospels and elsewhere in the New Testament. Passages such as Luke 6:24 and James 5:1-6 reflect a harsh repudiation of riches. Clement of Alexandria, however, was aware of the implicit theological problem: What is wrong if a person, by foresight and frugality prior to a life of faith, has enough to live on? What's more, since God is the dispenser of goods to the household of humanity, what if someone was born into a wealthy and powerful family? If such a person is excluded from Life and yet has made no choice to be rich, then God, who brought the person into existence, is in the wrong.... Why does wealth even exist if it is only a vehicle of Death? {Div. 26; d. 10
A sensitivity to this tension, along with other concerns (Garrison 1993), prompted early Christian communities to accommodate the wealthy principally by encouraging the rich to "do good" by providing for the poor. This charitable ministry of the wealthy has roots in the so-called collection for the saints (Acts 11:27-30; 2 Cor 8-9; Rom 15:25-27). First Timothy6:17-19 explicitly instructs those who are materially well off to remember that God is the true benefactor and they in turn are "to do good and to be wealthy in good deeds through generous liberality." The theme ofimitatingGod's "do-goad-ness," his beneficent character, is stressed in Luke 6:33-36 (cf. Seneca, De 1.1.12):
benet.
If you only do good [aya6orcolllt€] to those who do good [aya8oTC01ouv't£x<;;1 to you, how is that to your credit? ...• Love your enemies and do good [aya601t01€i't"€ J; lend with no expectation of return.
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And your reward will be great; you will be children of the Most High, for he is good [XPTJotoc;; cf. Danker 1982: 326] even to the ungrateful and evil. Be compassionate as your Father is compassionate. Two prominent ideas in this passage warrant more specific attention: first, the injunction to "do good" as distinct from simply the command to "perform works which are good," specifically as a means of helping the poor; and second, the concept of God as a benefactor whose generosity is to be imitated. The seemingly simplistic phrase, "do good," while taking a number of linguistic forms, is often used in early Christian literature to mean "be charitable in the use of resources, especially money." This usage has been seen already in 1 Timothy 6: 17-19 and Luke 6:33-36, but is clear in Mark 14:7 and at least implicit in Hebrews 13: 16 (Danker 1982: 325). Advantage was to be taken of the opportunity to "do good" (Gal 6: 10; Herm. Vis. 3.9.5; cf. Seneca,
De benef. 4.12.5). The formula "do good" may be rooted in a tradition that stressed that the true benefactor (euEpyetllC;) ought to practise the doing of good (EuePYEo(a)
(cf. Dio Chrysostom, Orat. 65). This observation is consistent with Danker's analysis of Acts 4:9 and 10:38, where the "good deeds" ofJesus are referred to in EuepyetllC; terminology; a genuine benefactor is characterized by deeds that are good: "Meaningful beneficence ... derives from a service-oriented frame of mind" (Danker 1982: 324; 1987: 32; cf. Lull 1986). Wealthy Christians are encouraged to demonstrate servant-beneficence by virtually adopting those to whom they might exercise charity. Clement of Alexandria was anxious that the rich discover how their material fortune was to be used (principally through almsgiving) in order to acquire "life" (Div. 27; cf. Countryman 1980: 103, 112). Consequently, he viewed charity as a virtual investment for the soul (32). What magnificent trading, a godly business! With money you purchase incorruption. In giving up the perishable commodities of the world you receive eternal possessions in Heaven. If you are wise, those of you who are wealthy, then set sail for this market. Search the whole earth if necessary. Do not spare any risk or toil that you might buy a heavenly kingdom. Not surprisingly, some texts in the Apostolic Fathers recommend that rich Christians seek out poorer brothers and sisters in order that they might "do
PHOEBE
67
good" and be rewarded (e.g., Bam. 21:2; Herm. Man. 2,4, 6; 8.10, 12; Herm.
Sim. 9.20.1-4; 9.30.4-5). It was even claimed that such benevolence was the reason the Lord had made them wealthy: so that they might fulfil these serviceduties «(naKov(a~) (Herm. Sim. 1.8-11)! In considering how Phoebe combined the roles of "servant" and "benefactor," it is striking that early Christian literature has preserved at least one prominent tradition found in Hermas claiming that the wealthy are uniquely equipped to be "deacons" in their ministry to the poor (Osiek 1983:
133; Herm. Sim. 2.7,10; 9.26.2; Herm. Man. 2.6; cf. Div. 14; Ign., Phld. 11:1). Several texts require that deacons not be lovers of money or greedy for gain, presumably because they should place a higher value on meeting people's needs than on furthering their own gain (1 Tim 3:8; Did. 15: 1; Pol., Phil. 5:2). Apparently Phoebe regarded her affluence as an incentive, even a qualification, for becoming a deacon of the congregation at Cenchrcae. As such she would enjoy an enhanced opportunity not only to follow the example of Jesus (Luke
22:24-27) but to be like God. This latter theme of imitating God's benevolence is evident in Luke 6:3336 (and Eph 4:32-5: 1). The use of benefactor language is even more emphatic in the Letter to Diognetus: God has given us aU things as we both share in his benefits [euepyeotwv] and comprehend them .... By your love you shall imitate his goodness [XPTJo't6'tTJ'to~j cf. Luke 6:35], and do not be amazed that it is possible to imitate God .... Whoever takes on another's burden, desiring to help another who is disadvantaged, and who benefits [EU€PYE't'€lv) those in need through what has been received from God becomes a [virtual] god to those who in turn receive them. This person imitates God. (8:11; 10;4,6; cf. Seneca, De bene!. 1.1.9; 3.15.4; 4.3.2; 4.25.1) The designation of God as "Benefactor" is especially prominent in 1
Clement. There, God is described as the Father and Creator who has bestowed gifts on humanity and these "benefits" are referred to as EUEPYE(J(a\ (19:2; 20:11; 21:1; 23: 1; 38:3; probably also 59:3). In light of God's "good deeds" (so 19:2; 21:1; cf. Phil 1:6 in Danker 1982: 439), Clement calls on his readers to "do good" (2] :1; cf. Danker 1987: 34). The idea of imitating God's benevolence is prominent in the epistle as the author continually admonishes the CQrinthians to demonstrate "do-good-ness" (8:4; 22:4; 30:7; 33:1; 34:2, 4; 38:2). His
68
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
constant plea is well summarized in 14:3: "Let us be good [XPl10't'EuowJ.l.E6a;
cf. Luke 6:35] to one another according to the mercy and tenderness of our Maker." While the objectives of the letter-writer in the late first century might seem questionable for the task of understanding the influences on Phoebe in the mid-first century, Clement's concerns are nevertheless germane. Clement does not simply hope that the Corinthians will adopt a new manner of living that is consistent with the gospel. He seeks, rather, to have them renew a pattern of conduct for which they once were famous. He praises their former reputation: You were all humble, not arrogant, submitting yourselves rather than subjecting others, happier in giving than receiving. You were satisfied with Christ's provision and you were alert to his w()T(L~, storing them away deep in your hearts. His sufferings were before your eyes. Thus a profound and fruitful peace was given to aU and an insatiable desire to do good [6:ya6onmio:v; cf. Luke 6:33-36] ....You had no regret in all your good doing [6:ya6onOl t~J, ready for every good work [epyov aya66v]. (2: 1-2, 7; italics mine) Clement attempts to call the Corinthians back to such conduct (33:1-2; 34:2). Aware of the noteworthy Corinthian qnAaod<j>ia (47:5), he hopes to inspire its restoration (48:1). Phoebe would have been one representative of the Corinthian congregation that earned such a highly respected reputation (cf. 1:2). Her servant-benefactor character, grounded in the words ofJesus and demonstrated through doing good and loving others, might even be the basis for Clement's admonition: "[T]he more someone seems great [J.I.€i(wv; cf. Luke 22:26], humility is needed and [one must] seek the common good of all, not one's own advantage" (48:6). This is the essential background for appreciating the roles of servant and benefactor in early Christianity. Phoebe is described as both. Paul refers to Phoebe as a ouh:ovo<; and a
ltpoo'tan<;. The meaning of these two titles has been widely debated (Meeks 1983: 60; Richardson 1986: 239; cf. Judge 1960: 137 n.18). The context for each warrants our attention. Clement of Alexandria said of wealth: "[1] ts nature is to minister, not to rule" (Div. 14). This theme is central for interpreting the representation of Jesus in the gospels (d. Taylor 1926: 41·42) since the "servanthood" ofJesus
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PHOEBE
may have provided the model of "deacon" (Pol., Phil. 5:2; cf. Mark 9:35; Matt 23: 11; Danker 1987: 349; Moxnes 1991: 263). Indeed, at a certain point in church history, deacons were to be respected as Jesus Christ
(w~
•11loouv
Xpw.6v) (Ign., Trail. 3:1). Ignatius went so far in his praise of one deacon that he wrote, "I wish that all imitated him for he is an embodiment of God's service [otat
Travelling through the cities and villages, Jesus and the Twelve with him preached the message of the kingdom of God. Women who had been healed of evil spirits and sicknesses--Mary, called Magdalene, from whom seven demons had been exorcised; Joanna, the wife of Herod's steward Chuza; Susanna-and many others served [OtTjKOV01)V] them from their own possessions. (Luke 8; 1-3) As they travelled he entered a village and a woman named Martha received him. She had a sister called Mary who sat at the Lord's feet listening to his
2 It is worth noting that Tychicus is also described as a UUVOOUAOC;, a term Ignatius used of deacons (Eph. 2:1; Magn. 2;1; Phld. 4: 1). That even literal slaves could be benefactors (in a Christian understanding), see 1 Timothy 6:2, which Danker (1982: 324) regards as a "dramatic language event." Cf. also Pliny (Ep. 10.96).
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
teaching. Martha, however, was distracted by much service [O\Q;KOV(CtV]
and she said, "Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to serve by myself! Tell her to assist me." Answering her, the Lord said, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and troubled about many things. One is needed. Mary has selected the good portion which shall not be taken from her." 3 (Luke 10:38-42)
Influenced by these texts, perhaps, or by the thoughts lying behind them, Phoebe could assume the responsibilities of a OtaKovo<; as well as a npoo'tan<;. The actual meaning of the latter term is especially difficult to determine: Is this a title of an office or does it merely describe a function (ef. 1 Thess 5: 12)? One reason for the uncertainty is that the word is not found elsewhere in the New Testament (Richardson 1986: 239) and its occurrence in the Apostolic Fathers is restricted to I Clement, where the masculine form of the term is used of Christ as "guardian" or "protector" (36:1; 61:3; 64). To render Romans 16:2 as referring to Phoebe simply as a "helper" is not helpful; Jewett has even called it "preposterous" (1988: 150). A more suitable and precise term is needed. The present consensus is that npo(nan<;, especially in a context where "Roman influence is strong" (Meeks 1983: 60, 79), refers to a female patron who financially supported a group or society, perhaps even a philosophical school (Stambaugh and Balch 1986: 140). For the purposes of this study, it is significant that Wayne Meeks, following E. A. Judge. has argued that npoo't'lXnt; is equivalent in meaning to the term €u€pye't1l<; (Meeks 1983: 60; Judge 1960: 128-29). Thus a olaKovoc;-npoo't'an<; could properly be translated as "a servant-benefactor." Phoebe may always remain largely unknown to us, but seeking a better understanding of her is a worthy enterprise Oewett 1988: 147). That she was apparently a significant member of the Corinthian church at Cenchreae raises the question as to what extent she was guided by the gospel traditions that shaped that community. Here Peter Richardson's insights and suggestions have been most valuable. Working on the assumption that Proto-Lukan material, especially Luke 22:24-27, was known to the Corinthians, and that Paul's description is closer to truth than to fiction, I have argued that Phoebe, a wealthy individual, came to believe that in obedience to Christ and in imitating
3 See also the Lukan portrait of women servant-benefactors in Acts 9:36; 16:11-15.
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71
him she could become a servant-benefactor. She came to be designated by her functions or activity rather than by holding office or tides. Within her community she was a olaKovoc;; and a npocna'nc;;. In both ministrie~ she came to merit distinction so that Paul entrusted her to carry his letter to the Christian community at Rome.
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References Countryman, Louis William
1980
The Rich Christian in the Church of the Early Empire: Contradictions and Accommodations. New York: Edwin Mellen.
Danker, Frederick W.
1982
Benefactor: Epigraphic Study of a Graeco-Roman and New Testament Semantic Field. St. Louis: Clayton. 1987 [19761 Luke. Second ed. Philadelphia: Fortress. Dungan, David L. 1971 The Sayings ofJesus in the Churches of Paul. Philadelphia: Fortress. Garrison, Roman
1993
Redemplive Almsgiving in Early Christianity. Sheffield: JSOT Press.
Jeremias, Joachim
1966
The Eucharistic Words ofJesus. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons.
Jewett, Robert
1988
Judge, E. A. 1960
"Paul. Phoebe, and the Spanish Mission." In Jacob Neusner, Ernest S. Frerichs, Peder Borgen and Richard Horsley (eds.), The Social World of Formative Christianity and Judaism: Essays in Tribute to Howard Clark Kee, 142-61. Philadelphia: Fortress. "The Early Christians as a Scholastic Community." Journal
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Religious History 1: 4-15, 125-37. Lull, David J.
1986
"The Servant-Benefactor as a Model of Greatness (Luke 22:24-30)." Novum Testamentum 28: 289-305. Meeks, Wayne A. 1983 The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul. New Haven: Yale University Press. Moxnes, Halvor 1991 "Patron-Client Relations and the New Community in Luke-Acts." In Jerome H. Neyrey (ed.), The Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation, 241-68. Peabody: Hendrickson. Nelson, Peter K. 1994 Leadership and Discipleship: A Study of Luke 22:24-30. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Osiek, Carolyn 1983 Rich and Poor in the Shepherd of Hermas: An Exegetical-Social Investigation. Washington: Catholic Biblical Association of America.
73
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Richardson, Peter 1984 "The Thunderbolt in Q and the Wise Man in Corinth." In Peter Richardson and John C. Hurd (eds.), From Jesus to Paul: Studies in Honour of Francis Wright Beare, 91·111. Waterloo; Wilfrid Laurier University Press. 1986 "From Apostles to Virgins: Romans 16 and the Roles of Women in the Early Church." Toronto Joumal of Theology 2: 232·61. 1987 "Gospel Traditions in the Church in Corinth (with Apologies to B. H. Streeter)." In Gerald F. Hawthorne and Otto Betz (eds.),
Tradition and Interpretation in the New Testament: Essays in Honor of E. Earle Ellis for His 60th Birthday, 301·18. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. "Temples, Altars and Living from the Gospel (1 Cor. 9.12b-18)." In L. Ann Jervis and Peter Richardson (eds.), Gospel in Paul: Studies on Corinthians, Galatians and Romans for Richard N. Longenecker, 89·110. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Richardson, Peter and Peter Gooch "Logia ofJesus in 1 Corinthians." In David Wenham (ed.), Gospel 1984 1994
Perspectives, V: The Jesus Tradition Outside the Gospels, 39·62. Sheffield: JSOT Press. Stambaugh, John E. and David L. Balch
1986
The New Testament in Its Social Environment. Philadelphia: Westminster.
Streeter, B. H.
1964
The Four Gospels. London: Macmillan.
Taylor,Vincent
1926 1964
Behind the Third Gospel. Oxford: Clarendon. The Formation of the Gospel Tradition. London: Macmillan.
6
PAUL AND THE CARAVANNERS: A PROPOSAL ON THE MODE OF "PASSING THROUGH MYSIA" ROBERT JEWETT
The traditional image of Paul's travels is heroically footsore. For example, Stewart Perowne views him as an "ordinary foot, traveller" (Perowne 1973: 72; also 41-44,49,50; see also Grant 1982: 215,22), and popular studies extol his heroic feats of hiking and climbing (Matthews 1916: 131-75; Muggeridge and Vidlcr 1972: 79-93; Buckminster 1965: 102-106). Scholarly studies usually depict Paul as walking alone or with a few companions along isolated Roman roads (Ramsay 1896: 93, 99; Pope 1939: 25-26; Metzger 1955: 29; Deissmann 1957: 235-37; Rapske 1994: 6-14; Legasse 1991: 44). Confronting the constant dangers of travel (Murphy-O'Connor 1996: 96-101), his only real defence was faith. The description of risky travel in the catalogue of hardships in 2 Corinthians 11:23-27 sustains this picture, with the eightfold repetition of (see Martin 1986: 378; Fitzgerald 1988). There is no doubt that these dangers were real, but the question I wish to raise is whether Paul always
KWOUVot<;
faced them alone and on foot. To honour Peter Richardson, who has devoted so much energy to clarifying the historical and material setting of the New Testament, I want to consider another mode of travel that Paul may have used on some of the routes of his missionary enterprise. That Paul may have travelled with a caravan has never been considered in the scholarly discussion of his itinerary, so far as I can tell. Paul's background in the tent trade, and his early ministry in Arabia where travel via caravans was routine, lend a general plausibility to this suggestion. But there is one particular journey whose puzzling route and schedule might be clarified by this mode of travel: Paul's trip from Galatia to Troas on the socalled Second Missionary Journey. To grasp the explanatory power of this hypothesis, we need to review the puzzling description of this trip.
PAUL AND THE CARAVANNERS
75
1. Unresolved Aspects of Paul's Travels Through Mysia The reference in Acts 16:6-8 is as follows: (6) And they went through the region of Phrygia and Galatia, having been forbidden by the Holy Spirit to preach the word in Asia. (7) And coming opposite Mysia they were trying to journey into Bithynia, but the Spirit of Jesus did not allow them, (8) but passing through Mysia they came down into Troas. It seems dear from this description that PauPs initial plan was to travel from Galatia to the province of Asia with its capital in Ephesus (Jewett 1997a: 1-22). That this was "forbidden by the Spirit" (16:6) has led interpreters to infer that travel conditions were adverse (Roloff 1981: 241), that a heavenly message was received, an "inner compulsion" felt (Marshall 1980: 262), or that some other circumstance arose whose nature we have no way of discerning with the evidence currently available (Johnson 1992: 285). The use of the verb
£netpa(ov has led interpreters to envision efforts to travel through Bithynia along the norther~ coastal highway, but this also was prohibited by "the Spirit ofJesus" (16:7), which some have ascribed to adverse circumstances (Roloff 1981: 241), an intuition ascribed by Paul to Jesus, "or perhaps even a lack of determination" (French 1994: 57). While the precise causes of these shifting travel plans can never be known with certainty (Metzger 1955: 36~37; Legasse 1991: 113), "we have no reason for doubting" the general outlines of these travels (Bornkamm 1971: 50). The implications concerning travel routes can be examined with the maps that have long been available, but that have rarely been consulted by commentators. The road system in southern and central Galatia has been weU known since William Ramsay's time (Ramsay 1896), and confirmed by the Calder and Bean Classical Map of Asia Minor published in 1958, making clear where the travel decisions in 16:7 would have led. Passing through the Phrygian and Galatian cities where churches had been founded on the "First Missionary Journey" of Acts 13,14 would have required travel on the main road north from Syrian Antioch, through the Cilician Gates, and west to Derbe, Lystra and !conium. To travel into Asia from that point required using the highway north and west of !conium that led to Pisidian Antioch, the gateway to the main road into the central part of Asia and its capital Ephesus. Having been
76
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prevented from travelling on this main highway west into Asia, the only alternative was to travel north "on unpaved tracks or paths" (French 1980: 698-729; 1994: 56; McPherson 1954: 111-20) into North Galatia where Paul apparently missionized for a considerable period of time while being detained by illness (GaI4: 13-14). After establishing several congregations in Galatia (Gall: 2), Paul deparred on a route that brought him "opposite Mysia" to a junction that could lead to Bithynia (Acts 16:7). The only possible location for this junction is evident when one studies the system of Roman roads detailed on the Calder and Bean map (see also French 1994: 56; Belke and Restle 1984: 94, 105-106). Dorylaeum is the point opposite Mysia which has a major highway leading north into Bithynia, a matter on which there is wide scholarly consensus. For example, Valentin Weber made this case on the basis of the road system uncovered by Ramsay, showing that Dorylaeum was the location where the decision not to go into Bithynia was made, and noting that the imperfect verb indicates several efforts to travel in that direction (Weber 1920: 33; see also Lake 1933: 5.230; Haenchen 1961: 486; Bowers 1979: 508). The only other direction to travel, if one stayed on the Roman highways as an experienced traveller would certainly prefer, was southwest toward Cotiaeum (Riesner 1998: 291). At this point the Roman road discovered by previous researchers comes to an abrupt stop. There was a later Byzantine road from Dorylaeum through Cotiaeum to Azanoi and Cadi, then southwest to Synaos past a lake and further along the Macestus River, past Aneyra and then along the river where no more Byzantine settlements are identified (Belke and Mersich 1990: 7). Calder and Bean mark "other roads" through Azanoi, Kadol, Synaos, Ancyra and then north to Carsae and Didymoteiche to arrive in Achyraus, well within the borders of the area ofMysia. At this point there is one of the "other roads" leading west to the seacoast, but no path leading to the Scamander valley which lies directly to the east of Troas. It seems clear that "contra his otherwise habitual pattern he did not use amain highway" (Riesner 1998: 292; see also Hemer 1989: 112-13). When Acts 16:8 refers to Paul "passing through Mysia," it is likely that 1tap€A.e6v't€~ means that he
traveHed one of these routes but did not stop for missionizing activities (Weber 1920: 34; Pope 1939: 68; Marshall 1980: 262; Johnson 1992: 285; Bauernfeind 1980: 206; Witherington 1998: 479). None
PAUL AND THE CARAVANNERS
77
of the cities along this route was in fact missionized by Paul, if church tradition and the New Testament evidence are to be believed; there is also no time on Paul's crowded itinerary for such ministries. This avoidance of missionizing between Galatia and Troas is puzzling on several grounds. On his other missionary travels where the route is relatively well known, Paul stopped at urban centres both large and small to establish congregations, and also] in all probability, to earn funds for his next travels. The Thessalonian correspondence gives clear indications of his self-supporting labour (1 Thess 4:11-12; 2 Thess 3:7-12), and we have reliable studies that show the relatively
low economic status of hand workers like Paul (Hock 1980: 31-37). Several important urban centres lay along the route between Galatia and Troas. Dorylaeum (modern-day Eski§ehir) was a large Roman city (Strabo 12.8.12; Jones 1971: 37, 60,65,67, 160; Mitchell 1993: 1.129, 132; Freil983: 56) and the next five cities on the route west were smaller, but significant market centres with substantial Roman temples and public buildings: Cotiaeum (Strabo 12.8.12; Jones 1971: 37, 60,65,67,69; Mitchell 1993: 1.181; Belke and Mersich 1990: 312-16; French 1981-88: 2.141); Azanoi (Strabo 12.8.12; Jones 1971: 60,65,67; Mitchell 1993: 1.199-200,21415; Belke and Mersich 1990: 201-203; Naumann 1973; 1980; 1982; 1983; 1984; Naumann and Hoffmann 1985; Hoffmann and Rheidt 1991; Rheidt 1993); Cadi/Kadoi (Strabo 12.8.12; Jones 1971: 44, 60, 81-82; Mitchell 1993: 1.229; Belke and Mersich 1990: 285; the site, probably modem-day Eski Gediz, has not been excavated); Synaos (Ruge 1931; Jones 1971: 89-90; Belke and Mersich 1990: 395-96; Waelkins 1986: 35; the site of modern-day Simav has not been excavated) j Ancyra in Mysia (Strabo 12.5.2; 12.8.11; Hirschfeld 1894b; Magie 1950: 1. 782jJones 1971: 89-90; Mitchell 1993: 1.181; Belke and Mersich 1990: 18485; the location is more likely Assaria than Kilissaki6i, but until these sites are excavated, no certainty is possible). An alternate route to Ancyra in Mysia would have passed Tiberiopolis, another small Roman city (Ruge 1937a; Magic 1950: 1.500; Jones 1971: 89-90; Mitchell 1993: 1.181,229; Belke and Mersich 1990: 404-405; the site remains uncertain). The next city to the west would have been Achyraus (Magie 1950:
1. 782; Robert 1962: 385; this unexcavated site is probably near either Balikesir
78
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or Bigadi~). Each of these cities probably served as the administrative hub for its district, which would have allowed evangelization after Paul's departure. If Paul's route were directly to the west of Achyraus, crossing the mountains to approach Troas through the Scamander valley (see Pope 1939: 68-69), it would have passed several areas where Roman authorities were mining for silver and lead by means of slave labour or prisoners of war: Pericharaxis (Ruge 1937b; Wiegand 1904: 254-339; Magie 1950: 1.44, 798, 803-804; Jones 1971: 88; Pemicka et al. 1984: 540-49, 572; Pemicka 1987: 649; this site is probably near Balia Maden); Ergasteria (Burchner 1909; Cramer 1832: 1.58; Jones 1971: 88, 90; it is uncertain whether this mining area near Balia Maden was being exploited by the Romans in the first century); Argiza (Hirschfeld 1896a; Jones 1971: 86,88,90 places it in the upper basin of the Aesepus River; the mining site continued through Byzantine times); Argyria (Strabo 12.3.23; 13.1.45; Hirschfeld 1896b; Magie 1950: 1.44,804; Pernicka et al. 1984: 538 locate Argyria 3 km southwest of Kalkim; shards indicate occupation from Hellenistic through Byzantine times); Polichne (Strabo 13.1.45,52; Kirsten 1952; Cook 1973: 314; Jones 1971: 6, 88, 90 locates it in the upper basin of Aesepus shared between PoHchne and Argiza. between modern-day Karakoy and Orencik). Descending from this mountainous area where mining activities have continued down to modern times, the route through the Scamander valley would have passed through two small Roman towns: Cebren (Strabo 13.1.33, 47, 52; Cook 1973: 341; Magie 1950: 1.804;Jones 1971: 35-36, 41; Leaf 1914-16: 19-28; BUrchner 1922 locates it on the left side of the Scamander, at Ak Punar-KjOi); Scamandros Oones 1971: 35, 86, 90; Cook 1973: 295-96,354·56 concludes that Akk6y is the most likely location of this town which existed from the Roman through the Byzantine periods). If Paul travelled along the south coast of the Troad, he would have passed through several sizable cities:
PAULANDTHECARAVANNE~
79
Adramyttium (Strabo 13.1.6, 49, 51, 68; Hirschfeld 1894a; Mitchell 1993: 1.33; Jones 1971: 33,34. 44. 47, 61, 69, 85, 89-90 identifies it with a site near Buyiikdere); Assos (Strabo 13.1.2,51,57, 66; Jones 1971: 35, 85, 90; Mitchell 1993: 1.256; Serdaroglu 1982: 181-82; 1991: 43-52; 1993: 1-6; Stupperich 1993: 9-13; 1996a: 49-70; 1996b: 33-42; 1996c: 1-31); Antandrus (Strabo 13.1.51; Hirschfeld 1894c; Cook 1973: 267-71; Jones 1971: 38, 85, 90; Pernicka et al. 1984: 535-37,549); Gargara (Strabo 13.1.5, 51, 56,58; Biirchner 1912; Cook 1973: 255-61; Jones 1971: 35, 85, 90). The geography of the Troad suggests that Paul's route must have either aimed at Adramyttium on the seacoast where the coastal highway led through Antandrus and Assos to Troas, or followed paths unknown to modern researchers through the Aesepus and Scamander valleys, and down into T roas (He mer 1975: 103; Brandl 1989: 1604-606). The expression Kcxn~PTlacxv Ei~
Tp<¥aocx would accurately describe a journey down into the coastal city from the mountainous country to the east of Troas. But since we do not know whether the "other roads" west of Dorylaeum were actually in use during Roman times or whether any of the alternative routes west of Achyraus were available, both his route and his means of travel are problematic. The difficult, mountainous terrain and the paucity of cities along a portion of this route raise serious questions about the feasibility of a lone traveller. The lack of shelter in towns spaced conveniently along these routes would have made either route highly problematic. The puzzle is increased when one takes account of the risks of travelling through Mysia, which had chronic problems with brigands. The relative absence of urbanized centres and the deep forests of the surrounding mountains made this terrain very difficult to police. Mitchell notes that "Mysian banditry posed a significant hazard even during the pax Ramana" (1993: 1.166). The proximity of this reference to the "We" source commencing in Acts 16: 10 indicates the likelihood of a travel diary (Bornkamm 1971: 50) or oral tradition lying behind these travel details Gewett 1979: 12-17; Porter 1994: 2.545-73; Alexander 1996; Witherington 1998: 480-86), especially if one infers that Paul in Troas met the author of the "We" source (Hemer 1975: 96-97, 101), who would have heard about the route from Paul. But how did Paul
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actually traverse this terrain from North Galatia to Troas? To the present day, there are hundreds of kilometres of possible road systems between these points that have not been identified, and the maps in the biblical atlases continue to draw dotted lines as if Paul travelled by helicopter over the mountains. There is also no indication of travelling companions during this period; but it seems highly implausible to travel alone from North Galatia to Troas without taking the well-guarded main roads through Bithynia or Asia. There is a need to consider the possibility of an alternative mode of transportation, one that was not dependent on major highways or shelters at inns, one that involved a sufficiently large group of well-armed companions that traversing Mysia could be risked. 2. The Celts of North Galatia and Their Economic Dependence on Caravans It is well known that three Celtic tribes invaded central Anatolia in the third century BeE and settled in the area of the central high plains, a treeless grassland of 2,000-4,000 feet altitude. Some of this land was arable and the rest was useful only for livestock (Strobel 1996: 80-105). In an area of flexible boundaries, the T olistobogii settled between Pessinus and Gordium, the Tectosages near Ancyra, and the Trocmi further east near Tavium (Mitchell 1993: 1.51-58; Strobel 1996: 252-64). Even after these itinerant, warlike groups were defeated and incorporated into the Roman Empire in a process culminating in the first century OCE, most of the tribespeople remained nomadic and non-urbanized. They retained their Celtic customs and language for centuries after coming into contact with Greek and Roman authorities, even while adopting local gods and customs (Mitchell 1993: 1.58). Most of the population was bilingual, conversing in both Greek and the local Celtic dialect (Mitchell 1993: 1.176). In place of cities, they built hill-forts off the main lines of transportation that afforded protection for their herds and their population in times of threat (Mitchell 1993: 1.84-85). The Galatians appear to have continued the tradition of tribal assemblies in rural locations for religious ceremonies, election of leaders, criminal trials, trade and political decisions (Mitchell 1993: 1.187). The terrain of the high plateau contributed to the continuation of the nomadic social structure long after Celts in other portions of the empire had adapted to classical civilization (Rankin 1996: 207).
PAUL AND THE CARAVANNERS
81
The rural preferences of the Galatian population did not isolate it from outside contact because a major east-west trade route ran through this territory. Economic viability would have required some involvement in local as well as long-distance trading operations. The traditional products of this area probably continued to be wool and textiles (Mitchell 1993: 1.83, 146,257), slaves (Rankin 1996: 190), cheese (Birkhan 1997: 1086), salt (Mitchell 1993:
1.147) and cattle. Imperial estates on the most productive land were probably among the chief beneficiaries of this trade (Mitchell 1993: 1.149-58). The grain trade was probably largely payment in kind of local taxes or provisions required by military garrisons (Mitchell 1993: 1.247-53). The emporium of Tavium was the likely source of widely exported East Galatian pottery (Mitchell 1993: 1.83). There are good reasons to assume that the Galatians were engaged in trade with other parts of the Roman Empire. Robert Broughton notes that, starting from Augustus's time, there began an era of two hundred years of almost uninterrupted internal peace, with piracy suppressed, and seas and roads protected. Thus there was created a huge trading area extending from Britain to the Euphrates with free and unimpeded distribution ... of primary products and manufactured wares, with ready access and interchange between relatively undeveloped regions and the Eastern Mediterranean in trade, travel, workmen, techniques and ideas. (Broughton 1979: 95; see also Charlesworth 1924: 239-40; Cassel 1974: 122, 127; Meyer and West 1979) The need to bring local goods to lucrative markets, the continuation of local and regional trade fairs (De Ligt 1993: 65-70) and the stimulus of the longdistance trade moving through Galatia from the Far East toward the western parts of the empire would have encouraged Galatian participation in this trading boom (see Miller 1969: 145, map of the Silk Road into Asia Minor through Trapezus and Antioch, and other routes from the Far East to the Roman Empire, with the overland routes normally utilizing long-distance caravans). The famous Cel tic mastery of wheeled transport (Rankin 1996: 31; Birkhan 1997: 11lO-15) and the continuance of a heroic, martial tradition (Birkhan 1997: 1118-38) would have been useful in organizing and defending caravans through dangerous terrain. Although it seems plausible on the basis of geographic considerations that North Galatian trade with Rome would have
82
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gone through Troas, direct evidence on this point is tenuous; for example, Marijana Ricl's recent survey refers
to
only one inscription from Ancyra in
North Galatia mentioning a native of Troas who served as a "legal advisor victorious in many contests" (1997: 243). It is to be hoped that the excavation ofTroas led by ElmarSchwertheim (Schwertheim 1989: 229-32; 1990: 349-54; Schwertheim and Wiegantz 1994) may provide the basis for reconstructing the economic ties with the more distant hinterland of Troas. Indications of repeatedly disrupted travel plans in Acts 16 make it unwise to assume that the caravan with which Paul may have arrived in Troas originated in Galatia. Intending initially to travel the main highway into Asia, and then attempting to travel to Bithynia, he may well have attached himself to various caravans originating in a variety of locations. The same advantages could have been gained no matter where the caravan originated. As studies of caravan traditions through millennia indicate, a primary motivation in this mode of travel was to afford protection for valuable trade goods; the larger the caravan, the larger the measure of protection from bandits (Reisch 1974: 70-71). 3. The Hypothesis and Its Implications In the light of these considerations, it is plausible to suggest that Paul attached himself to a caravan bound for Troas, bringing products from Galatia or transporting goods from east of Galatia, such as silk, westward. The cost of travelling with caravans could well have been earned by Paul along the way, since there would have been a need for a leather worker to repair harnesses, saddles, packs, tents and clothing damaged by travel conditions. By travelling with a well-armed caravan, Paul would have had protection from bandits. And a caravan, although ordinarily following a set route, would not have been dependent on paved roads. Nor would it have been dependent on finding shelters every night, since caravanners often slept in tents, with guards posted, where inns were not available(see Cassel 1974: 197-218). The route through Mysia could have aimed at visiting the mining centres where food supplies and salt, essential for the survival of labourers in a mountainous terrain, could be traded for metal objects in demand further to the west. Once a caravan like this arrived in Troas, the most important emporium in northwestern Asia Minor was accessible for exchange of goods with the rest of the empire (Herner 1975: 87-95).
PAUL AND THE CARA VANNERS
83
Travelling with caravans would explain the puzzles of Paul's route to Troas and the lack of missionary activity in the urban areas along the way. The superior speed of caravans as compared with travel by foot correlates well with the limited time available for this itinerary Gewett 1979: 57-62). "Passing through Mysia" would be perfectly natural if Paul had joined a caravan that aimed to arrive in T roas as quickly as possible, with minimal time for trading and resting along the way. Associations and disassociations with various caravans also make it less difficult to envision the shifting plans and the odd route that have long puzzled scholars. In William Ramsay's words: The natural development of Paul's work along the great central route of the Empire was forbidden, and the next alternative that rose in his mind was forbidden: he was led across Asia from the extreme south-east to the extreme north-west corner, and yet prevented from preaching in it; everything seemed dark and perplexing. (1896: 200) Perhaps it was not so threatening after all, if it was a natural matter for someone who had spent years in Arabia and Cilieia (Gal 1:21) to travel with caravans, especially if there were sound economic and security advantages in doing so. Since we do not have any direct information about how these travels from Galatia to Troas actually took place, the plausibility of this hypothesis needs to be assessed in comparison with the traditional view of the lone traveller. Given the evidence about the terrain and the tempo of travel, it seems at least discussable that caravans were involved. While this hypothesis counters the superheroic image of Paul travelling alone and without protection, it is consistent with the picture emerging in recent scholarship of his flair in improvising co-operative arrangements. Far from being isolated, this apostle supported himself with co-operative business arrangements as a tent and leather worker (Hock 1980: 26-49; Murphy-O'Connor 1996: 86-89), spoke openly and warmly abou t his many co-workers (Ellis 1970-71; Ollrog 1979) and conceptualized his ministry as a partnership (Hooker 1996: 83-100; Schille
1967; Sampley 1980; Koenig 1985; D'Angelo 1990: 65-86). He even dared to refer to the Spirit of God as "co-operating" (auvEpyEiV) with believers (Rom
8:28). It does not require a great leap of faith or imagination to envision this particular apostle occasionally associating himself with earavanners engaged in an efficient, rapid and well-defended means ofland transport through adverse terrain.
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References Alexander, Loveday C. A. 1996 "The Pauline Itinerary and the Archive of Theophanes." Paper Presented at the Society of New Testament Studies Meeting in Strasbourg. Bauernfeind, Otto 1980 Kommentarund Studien ~ur Apostelgeschichte. Tubingen: Mohr. Belke, Klaus and Norbert Mersich 1990 Phrygien und Pisidien. Vienna: Osterreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Belke, Klaus and Marcell Restle 1984 Galatien und Lykaonien. Vienna: Osterreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Birkhan, Helmut 1997 Kelten. Versuch einer Gesamtdarstellung ihrer Kultur. Vienna: Osterreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Bornkamm, Gunther 1971 [1969] Paul. Trans. D. M. G. Stalker. New York;Evanston: Harper & Row. Bowers, W. P. "Paul's Route Through Mysia: A Note on Acts XVI.8." Journal of 1979 Theological Studies 30: 507-11. Brandl, M. "Troas." Das grosse Bibellexikon, 1604-606. Wupperta1!Giessen: 1989 Brockhaus. Broughton, T. Robert S. 1979 "Remarks on the Roman Empire and the Mediterranean Trade." Archaeological News 8: 95. Buckminster, Henrietta 1965 Paul: A Man Who Changed the World. New York: McGraw-Hill. Burchner, H. 1909 "Ergasteria." In Georg Wissova (ed.), Paulys Real-Encyclopiidie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft, 6.430. Stuttgart: Metzler. 1912 "Gargara." In Wissova, Paulys Real-Encyclopiidie, 7.757-58. 1922 "Kebren." In Wissova, Paulys Real-Encyclopiidie, 11.105-106. Calder, W. M. and George E. Bean 1958 A Classical Map of Asia Minor. London: British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara. Cassel, Lionel 1974 Travel in the Ancient World. Toronto: Hakkert.
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Charlesworth, Martin P.
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Cook,]. M.
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Ellis, E. Earle "Paul and His Co-Workers." New Testament Studies 17: 437-52. Fitzgerald, John T. 1988 Cracks in an Earthen Vessel: An Examination of the Catalogues of Hardships in the Corinthian Correspondence. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Frei, Peter 1983 "Epigraphisch-Topographische Forschungen im Raum von Eski§ehir." Arastirma Sunoclari Toplantisi 1: 53-62. Map on 235. French, David H. 1980 "The Roman Road-System in Asia Minor." In Hildegard Temporini and Wolfgang Haase (eds.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der romischen Welt, 2.7.2.698-729. Beriin/New York: De Gruyter. 1981-88 Roman Roads and Milestones of Asia Minor. Oxford: B. A R. 1994 "Acts and the Roman Roads of Asia Minor." In David W.]. Gill and Conrad Gempf (eds.), The Book of Acts in Its First Century Setting, Vol. 2: The Book of Acts in Its Graeco-Roman Setting, 49-58. Grand Rapids/Carlisle: Eerdmans/Patemoster. Grant, Michael 1982 Saint Paul. New York: Crossroad. Haenchen, Ernst 1961 Die Apostelgeschichte. Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Hemer, Colin]. 1975 "Alexandria Troas." Tyndale Bulletin 26: 79-112.
1970-71
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1989 The Book of Acts in the Setting of Hel!enistic History. Tiibingen: Mohr. Hirschfeld, Otto 1894a "Adramytteion." In Wissova, Paulys Real-Encyclopadie, 1.404. 1894b "Ankyra [in Mysia]." In Wissova, Paulys Real-Encyclopadie, 1.2222. 1894c "Antandros." In Wissova, Paulys Real-Encyclopadie, 1.2346. 1896a "Argiza." In Wissova, Paulys Real-Encyclopadie, 2.721. 1896b "Argyria." In Wissova, Paulys Real-Encyclopadie, 2.801. Hock, Ronald F. 1980 The Social Context of Paul's Ministry: Tentmaking and Apostleship. Philadelphia: Fortress. Hoffmann, Adolf and Klaus Rheidt 1991 "Die Ausgrabungen in Aizanoi 1990." Kazi Sunoclari Toplantisi 13:
323-40. Hooker, Morna D. "A Partner in the Gospel: Paul's Understanding of His Ministry." In 1996 Eugene H. Lovering, Jr. and Jerry L. Sumney (eds.), Theology and Ethics in Paul and His Interpreters: Essays in Honor of Victor Paul Furnish, 83-100. Nashville: Abingdon. Jewett, Robert 1979 A Chronology of Paul's Life. Philadelphia: Fortress. "Mapping the Route of Paul's 'Second Missionary Journey' on 1997a Previously Undiscovered Roman Roads from Pisidian Antioch to Troas." Tyndale Bulletin 48: 1-22. "Mapping the Route .... " [reprinted, with a "Postscript," in Reinhard 1997b Stupperich and Heinz A. Richter (eds.), Thetis. Mannheimer Beitrage zur klassischen Archaologie und Geschichte 4: 127-34] Johnson, Luke Timothy 1992 The Acts of the Apostles. Collegeville: Liturgical Press. Jones, A. H. M. [1937] The Cities of the Eastern Roman Provinces. Second ed. rev. by 1971 Michael Avi-Yonah et aL Oxford: Clarendon. Kirsten, E. 1952 "Polichne." In Wissova, Paulys Real-Encyclopadie, 21.2.1374-76. Koenig, John
1985 Lake, Kirsopp 1933
New Testament Hospitality: A Partnership with Strangers as Promise and Mission. Minneapolis: Fortress. "Note XVIII. Paul's Route in Asia Minor." In Kirsopp Lake and Henry J. Cadbury (eds.), The Beginnings of Christianity, Part 1: The Acts of the Apostles, 5.224-40. London: Macmillan.
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Leaf, Walter
1914·16
"Some Problems of the Troad." Annual of the British School at Athens 21: 16-30.
Legasse, Simon
1991
Paul Apotre. Essai de biographie critique. Paris: Cerf.
Magie, David
1950
Raman Rule in Asia Minor to the End of the Third Century After Christ. 2 vols. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Marshall, I. Howard
1980
The Acts of the Apostles: An Introduction and Commentary. Grand
Rapids: Eerdmans. Martin, Ralph P. 1986 2 Corinthians. Waco: Word Books. Matthews, Basil
1916
Paul the Dauntless: The Course of a Great Adventure. New York:
Revell. McPherson, L W. 1954 "Roman Roads and Milestones of Galatia." Anatolian Studies 4: 111-
20. Metzger, Henri
1955
[1954] St. Paul's Joumeys in the Greek Orient. Trans. S. H. Hooke.
London: SCM. Meyer, Eric and William West
1979
The Archaeology of Trade in the East Mediterranean: A Symposium.
Tallahassee: Archaeological News 8.3. Miller, James Innes 1969 The Spice Trade of the Roman Empire, 29 B. C. to AD. 641. Oxford: Clarendon. Mitchell, Stephen 1993 Anatolia: Land, Men, and Gods in Asia Minor. 2 vols. Oxford;New York: Clarendon/Oxford University Press. Muggeridge, Malcolm and Alec Vidler 1972 Paul, Envoy Extraordinary. New York: Harper & Row. Murphy-O'Connor, Jerome 1996 Paul: A Critical Life. Oxford: Clarendon. Naumann, Rudolf 1973 "Restaurierungen und Untersuchungen in Aezani." Turk Arkeoloji
1980 1982
Dergisi 20: 155-62. "Aizanoi 1979." Kazi Sunoclari Toplantisi 2: 135-38. "Die Ausgrabungen in Aizanoi 1981." Kazi Sunoclari Toplantisi 4: 183-92.
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"Aizanoi Kazilari." Kazi Sunoclari Toplantisi 5: 195-98. Photograph on 437. 1984 "Ausgrabungen in Aizanoi 1983." Kazi Sunoclari Toplantisi 6: 379-90. Naumann, Rudolf and Adolf Hoffmann 1985 "Ausgrabungen in Aizanoi 1984." Kazi Sunoclari T oplantisi 7: 311-24. Ollrog, Wolf-Henning 1983
1979
Paulus und seine Mitarbeiter. Untersuchungen zu Theorie und Praxis der paulinischen Mission. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag.
Pernicka, Ernst 1987 "Erzlagerstatten in der Agais und ihre Ausbeutung im Altertum." Jahrbuch des ramisch-gennanischen Zentralmuseums Mainz 34: 607 -714. Pernicka, Ernst et al. 1984 "Archaometallurgische Untersuchungen in Nordwestanatolian." Jahrbuch des romisch-gemtanischen Zentralmuseums Mainz 31: 533-99. Perowne, Stewart 1973 The]ourneys of St. Paul. LondonlNew York: Hamlyn. Pope, R. Martin On Roman Roads with St. Paul. London: Epworth. 1939 Porter, Stanley E. 1994 "Excursus: The 'We' Passages." In Gill and Gempf, The Book of Acts in Its First Century Setting, 2.545-74. Ramsay, William Mitchell 1896 St. Paul the Traveller and Roman Citizen. New York/London: Putnam/ Hodder & Stoughton. Rankin, David 1996 Celts and the Classical World. LondonlNew York: Routledge. Rapske, Brian "Acts, Travel and Shipwreck." In Gill and Gempf, The Book of Acts 1994 in Its First Century Setting, 2.1-47. Reisch, Max Karawanenstraj3enAsiens. Weis: Welsermiihl. 1974 Rheidt, Klaus "Die Ausgrabungen in Aizanoi 1992." Kazi Sunoclari Toplantisi 15: 1993 515-36. Riel, Marijana The Inscriptions of Alexandreia Troas. Bonn: Habelr. 1997 Riesner, Rainer 1998 [1994J Paul's Early Years: Chronology, Mission Strategy, Theology. Trans. D. Stott. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Robert, Louis 1962 Villes d'Asie Mineure. Etudes de geographie ancienne. Paris: Boccard.
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Roloff, Jurgcn
1981 Die Apostelgeschichte. Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Ruge, E. 1931 "Synaos." In Wissova, Paulys Real-Encyclopiidie, 2.4.1326-27. 1937a "Tiberiopolis." In Wissova, Paulys Real-Encyclopadie, 2.6.790-92. 1937b "Pericharaxis." In Wissova, Paulys Real-Encyclopadie, 19.720. Sampley, J. Paul 1980
Pauline Partnership in Christ: Christian Community and Commitment in Light of Roman Law. Philadelphia: Fortress.
Schille, Gottfried
1967 Die urchristliche Kollegialmission. Zurich: Zwingli. Schwertheim, Elmar 1989 "Forschungen in der Troas im Jahre 1988." Arastirma Sunoclari Toplantisi 7: 229-32. 1990 "Bericht uber die 1989 in Mysien und der Troas durchgeffihrten Forschungen." Arastirma Sunoclari Toplantisi 8: 349-54. Schwertheim, Elmar and Hans Wiegantz, eds. 1994 Neue Forschungen zu Neandria und Alexandria Troas. Bonn: Habelt. Serdaroglu, Dmit 1982 "1981 Yili Assos Calismalari." Kazi Sunoclari Toplantisi 4: 181-82. 1991 "Assos 1990 Yi!i Kazi ve Onar im Calismalari." Kazi Sunoclari Toplantisi 13: 43-52. 1993 "Zur Geschichte der Stadt Assos und ihrer Ausgrabungen." In D. Serdaroglu et al. (cds.), Ausgrabungen in Assos 1991, 1-6. Bonn: Habelt. Strobel, Karl 1996 Die Galater. Geschichte und Eigenart der keltischen Staatenbildung auf dem Boden des hellenistischen Kleinasien. Berlin: Akademie. Stupperich, Reinhard "Vorbericht uber die Grabung in der Westtor-Nekropole von Assos 1993 im Sommer 1989." In Serdaroglu et aI., Ausgrabungen in Assas 1991,
7-12. "Grabungen in der Nekropole von Assos 1989-94." Thetis 3: 49-70. "Neue Reliefs yom Athena-Tempel von Assos." Asia Minor Studien 21: 33-42. . "Vierter Vorbericht fiber die Grabung in der W esttor-N ekropole von 1996c Assos im Sommer 1992." Asia Minor Studien 21: 1-31. Waelkins, Marc 1986 Die kleinasiatischen Tursteine. Typologische und epigraphische Untersuchungen der kleinasiatischen Grabreliefs mit Scheintur. Mainz: Zabem. 1996a 1996b
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Weber, Valentin
1920
Des Paulus Reisenrouten bei der zweimaligen Durchquerung Kleinasiens. Neues Licht fUr die Paulusforschung. Wfirzburg: Becker.
Wiegand, Theodor 1904 "Reisen in Mysien." Athenische Mittheilungen 39: 254-339. Witherington, Ben, III 1998 The Acts of the Apostles: A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary. Grand Rapids/Carlisle: Eerdmans/Paternoster.
7 BENEFACTION GONE WRONG: THE "SIN" OF ANANIAS AND SAPPHIRA IN CONTEXT RICHARD
S. ASCOUGH
In the early chapters of Acts Luke describes the early Christians in Jerusalem as holding all things in common (a1tav'ta KOlva) and selling property and possessions to meet the needs of others (Acts 2:41-47; 4:32-35).1 Two specific examples of those who have sold property are recorded, one positive and one negative. Barnabas lays the proceeds from the sale of a field (aypo,=) at the feet of the apostles (Acts 4:36-37). Ananias and Sapphira likewise lay a sum at their feet from the sale of a piece of property (K'tlll-Laj Acts 5: 1-11). In their case, however, they do not turn over the entire proceeds from the sale of the land. When the discovery of their deception is brought to their attention each in turn dies on the spot. This negative example has been both puzzling and troublesome for many scholars (cf. Bruce 1988: 103; Haenchen 1971: 237). Most recognize that the addition in 5: 11 of OATJV 't~v £KKATJo(av to the twice-repeated notation of great fear (5:5b, II) probably indicates that the story bears an important message for Luke's community (Liidemann 1987: 64). Yet, since an explicit description of the motivation is missing from the text the theories vary as to what that message might be. In order to determine the full import of Luke's inclusion of the story we must consider what Luke's audience might have assumed to be the motivating factors behind the sin of Ananias and Sapphira, given the larger socia-cultural context. To do so we must set our text among
The practice quickly seems to have been abandoned within the Acts narrative. By Acts 11:27 -30 the Judean churches are impoverished and in need of help, a situation seemingly confirmed by Paul's collection for the poor of Jerusalem (see esp. 2 Cor 8-9; Rom 15:2526). There are no other New Testament texts that confirm Luke's depiction of the community of goods in Jerusalem.
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
the realia we have from antiquity, as Peter Richardson has championed. In this case our artifacts will be inscriptions. 1. Past Interpretations of the Story The text of Acts indicates that the sin for which Ananias and Sapphira are condemned is the attempt to deceive the Holy Spirit (Acts 5:3, 9). Many scholars see the lie itself as adequate explanation for the punishment. 2 In no instance do these scholars give an explanation as to why the couple withheld some of the proceeds, or why, in doing so, they felt it necessary to lie to the apostles and the community. While Luke would probably confirm the condemnation oflying both to others (Exod 20: 16; Lev 6:2; 19: 11) and to God (cf. Ezek 13: 1-10; Isa 28:17).3 it is doubtful whether this is an adequate explanation of this passage. For this reason, other scholars suggest that the precise nature of the sin lies elsewhere, particularly in the motivation for the lie. A number of commentators focus on the issue of the money retained. For example, Ernst Haenchen (1971: 240) suggests that the couple wanted to ensure their future security but felt it necessary to conform to the practice of others within the Christian community. Gerd LUdemann (1987: 64) is harsher in charging them with "dealing selfishly with material possessions." When ascribing the motivation for the lie to a desire simply to keep back money, most commentators assume that Ananias and Sapphira will be impoverished by the donation of the proceeds from the sale of this property. Ananias and Sapphira, however, sell "a" parcel ofland (btWA1l0ev K'rfjJ.La), not necessarily "all" of their land and possessions (cf. Witherington 1998: 21516). Simple concern for the money does not explain the lie. As Peter in the story points out (Acts 5:4), the money, or any part of it, was theirs to keep
2 For instance, Marshall (1980: 1l2); Schmithals (1982: 56); Bruce (1988: 105); Barrett (1994: 262); Havelaar (1997: 65); Dunn (1996: 63); Walaskay (1998: 61); Klinghardt (1994: 255). Forkman (1972: 173-74) attempts to connect their actions with the sin against the Holy Spirit mentioned in Luke 12: 10. This explanation is inadequate, however, since the context of Luke 12:8-12, unlike that of Acts 5, places the sin against the Holy Spirit in situations of christological confession before others, particularly those in authority outside the Christian community. 3 Punishment for lying to the gods is also attested in the non-Jewish world; for examples see Havelaar (1997: 70-72).
93
BENEFACTION GONE WRONG
without lying. Their motivation must include something they would gain through the lie. A number of commentators see behind Acts 5; 1-11 the story of Achan's sin in Joshua 7, where Achan keeps some of the spoils that were devoted to God. 4 Certainly there are parallels. In both Acts 5:2-3 and the LXX ofJoshua 7:1 the word voa
(Coj.J.(u is used of the primary action. As in the case of Achan, Ananias seems to have kept something that belongs to God, and he and his family are punished with death. The differences between the stories, however, are greater. In the Acts story "it is not a question of booty consecrated to Yahweh, but of a voluntary gift of money
to
the community,
and Ananias is not stoned by the community but Peter's accusation causes him to fall dead" (Haenchen 1971: 239, see also 240-41; cf. Johnson 1977: 205206; Pesch 1986: 1.198 n.ll). Also, the Christian community does not suffer loss as did the Hebrew people when they attacked Ai while under God's judgment for Achan's actions. Achan presumably took the goods in order to make himself weal thy, whereas Ananias and Sapphira have given over part, but not all, of their own goods. Even with the money they kept back they are poorer than they were to begin with. Another approach to the story of Ananias and Sapphira is to set the sin within its community context. Some scholars do so very generally, suggesting that the couple has disrupted the unity of the community Oohnson 1977: 206 and n.3; 1992: 87-88; Talbert 1997: 66) or undermined its practices (Cassidy 1987: 27; O'Toole 1995: 191, 199), even to the point of discrediting their testimony to outsiders (Pesch 1986: 1.198). Ben Witherington (1998: 215) suggests that since the description of Ananias in Acts 5:2 is similar to the description of Judas in Luke 22:3 Ananias's sin is perceived as a "violation of the integrity and KDtVWV(a. of the community," and the story is not simply "about human greed and duplicitous actions but about an invasion of the community of the Spirit by the powers of darkness, by means of Ananias."
4 Williams (1964: 88); Munck (1967: 40); Forkman (1972: 172); Neil (1973: 95); Bruce (1988: 102; 1988: 102-103, 132); Schmithals (1982: 56); Ludemann (1987: 65, with reservations); Boismard and Lamouille (1990: 164-65, with reservations); Johnson (1992: 88,91-92); Sterling (1994: 683 n.12); Walaskay (1998: 61); Witherington (1998: 214-15, with reservations). Some suggest a rypological resemblance: Marshall (1980: 111) ; OToole (1995: 200, 209); Talbert (1997: 66).
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Other scholars suggest that the sin is the withholding of something that has been vowed to God (Jeremias 1969: 130 n.l9; Talbert 1997: 65-66). Duncan Derrett (1971: 227-29) states that they have retained Sapphira's illlll:::J, or dowry, and in doing so they violate an actual or implied vow to the
community. In fact, Derrett goes so far as to claim that this was done at Sapphira's behest, and he compares her role to that of Eve in the garden of Eden (cf. Marguerat 1993; 222-25). In both aspects Derrett conjectures far beyond the textual data (cf. Capper 1995a: 1743-44; Witherington 1998: 215). Brian Capper (1983: 124-28; 1986) suggests that Ananias's sin lies in not turning over the full amount to the safe keeping of the community during his period of candidacy for membership in the Christian community (the "novitiate phase"). It is a "transgression against an accepted norm in his community" (1995a: 1742-43), which required the submission of the full amount from the sale of one's property (1983: 122). Thus, Ananias must have broken a prior commitment to hand over the full proceeds from the sale of the land (1983: 123-24; 1995a: 1743). Furthermore, he has "expressed mistrust of the Church and a selfishness which opposed the whole ethic of the group" (1995a: 1747). In a slightly later article Capper (1998: 503) describes the scenario "as a kind of fall of the first community from innocence (thereafter irretrievable)." The type of structure that Capper thinks is operative in the Jerusalem Christian community is similar to that described in the Dead Sea Scrolls, particularly the "Community Rule," in which community members are exhorted to share their property. 5 Ananias's action in handing over the money is compared to the procedure at Qumran wherein the prospective member's property was held separately from the community's common fund for the duration of his candidacy (Capper 1983: 126-28; 1995a: 1744-47; 1995b: 338). It was in the physical control of the community but not in the community's possession. In so transferring his property, Capper argues, Ananias still maintained full control over it, and either he would receive it back were his
5 See Capper (1983; 1986; 1995a; 1995b; 1998). Other scholars look to the later rabbinic account of the i1~))jJ and the ))nr.m, a weekly and daily collection of money for the poor of the town Oeremias 1969; Lake 1933; cf. m. Peah 8.7). There is some question whether this was practised in the first century CE (Seccombe 1978: 140-43).
BENEFACfrON GONE WRONG
95
candidacy rejected or it would pass into the common fund of the community when he was accepted. There are some difficulties with this view, not least of which is the lack of evidence for such a probationary period in the early church. Furthermore, the penalty for deceiving the community meted out on Ananias and Sapphir:a was dissimilar to that at Qumran: lQS 6 stipulates one year's exclusion from the fellowship meal and a reduction of food rations by one quarter. 6 Capper's assumption about the probationary period is also called into question by the character of Barnabas, whom we meet again in Acts 9:27 as Paul's advocate before the disciples and in 11:22-26 as the Jerusalem community's envoy to Antioch. In neither case is there any indication that he is serving a probationary period, and he is soon sent out as co-evangelist with Paul (beginning at Acts 13:1). Capper (1995b: 340-41) attempts to circumvent this problem by suggesting that at the time of Barnabas's contribution he is "being seconded to the leading class of the community." This is unlikely since the references in the text to the sale of land and to the actions of laying the proceeds at the feet of the apostles in both the Barnabas and the Ananias and Sapphira accounts seem to highlight a contrast in motivation in performing the same actions. More problematic is Capper's need to resort to the postulation of an "inner group" of disciples within the Jerusalem community which held things in common and to which Ananias and Sapphira were applying for admission (Capper 1995b: 337-38). The designation that "all the believers were of one heart and mind" and that "not one of them" claimed personal possessions (4:32) suggests conformity within the entire group, not a two-tiered level of adherence in which the couple are novices (cf. Witherington 1998: 215 n.74). Finally, the arguments put forth by Klinghardt (1994: 254-56) show that even in the case of the DSS communities (and those of the Pythagoreans to which Capper also appeals) it is not clear that an initiate had to submit all possessions "because otherwise the regulation about financial liability for damages (lQS 7.6-8) would make no sense at all" (1994: 255).
6 On the differences between the Jerusalem Christian and Qumran communities see Bruce (1988: 105 n.15); Haenchen (1971: 241); Forkman (1972: 173); Johnson (1977: 3-4). Recently Havelaar (1997: 75-77) has defended Capper's position.
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Within the range of scholarly discussions of Acts 5: 1-11 it is surprising that very few make reference to an aspect of life in antiquity that was of fundamental importance: benefaction. There are some vague references. For example, Bruce (1988: 105) notes that Ananias was attempting to "gain a reputation for greater generosity than he had actually earned," and Marshall (1980: 110) suggests that Ananias and Sapphira are attempting "to gain credit for a greater personal sacrifice than they had actually made." Richard Rackham (1901: 65) thinks that Ananias "desired the praise of the community for the sacrifice of his goods, and at the same time to enjoy the money" (quoted in Capper 1995a: 1741). In one sentence Halvor Moxnes (1991: 265) suggests that the sale of lands and distribution of the proceeds in Acts 2 and 4 is the Lukan ideal of benefaction, which is "dramatically contrasted with the story of Ananias and Sapphira." The most explicit connection is made by Scott Bartchy (1991: 315-18), who views Barnabas and Ananias and Sapphira as patrons of the Jerusalem Christian community. In making the claim to have contributed the entire amount of the selling price the errant couple "openly were seeking the honour appropriate to a truthful and faithful patron, honour appropriate to one who functioned as a flawing river oftife for his or her clients" (316). He goes on to suggest that the lie dishonours and shames them and "seriously violated the honour of the group" (316), hence explaining their punishment. Although Bartchy discusses the texts in the context of "fictive kin groups" (313-15) he makes no attempt to connect this category with the voluntary associations of antiquity, which themselves were fictive kin groups (Duling 1995a: 162-63j 1995bj Malina 1995: 108). In the remainder of this essay I want to set the story of Ananias and Sapphira within the context of benefaction to voluntary associations in antiquity in order to discern more clearly what Luke's audience might have assumed about Ananias's and Sapphira's motivation. In turn, the wider context of benefaction may provide an explanation for this particular story in Luke's narrative.
2. Benefaction in Associations In Greco-Roman antiquity the practice of benefaction was pervasive in both the public and private sectors (Elliott 1996: 144). Benefaction was bestowed and in exchange the recipient would "acknowledge and advertise his
BENEFACTION GONE WRONG
97
benefactor's generosity and power" (Garnsey and Saller 1987: 149). Thus, benefaction was a matter of gaining more honour for oneself. Benefaction could take many forms (the following is summarized from Garnsey and Saller 1987: 149-59). The emperor himself could act as a benefactor to his subjects, who would reciprocate with their loyalty. Among the elite benefaction was a means by which to gain public favour when running for public office (Moxnes 1991: 249). Wealthy patrons could use benefactions to gain for themselves a large and loyal group that would, quite literally, accompany them throughout the day in order to shower praise upon them. Upand-coming political players might find themselves the protege of an influential patron. Even among friends benefaction could take place, with men of equal standing helping one another in times of financial crisis. In this case, the benefaction would be understood in terms of reciprocity and the ideal that friends share things in common, rather than in terms of a patron-client relationship between two unequal parties. In this way honour was maintained on both sides. Finally, benefaction could occur within a group setting. A wealthy patron (male or female) might choose to fund a particular voluntary association and in exchange would receive public recognition and honour for his or her benefaction (Kloppenborg 1996: 27; Uhlhorn 1883: 23). Within the association itself regulations were often put in place in order to ensure that the members' basic needs were met {Garnsey and Saller 1987: 156-57}. John Kloppenborg (1995: 10-11) effectively summarizes this particular situation: Lacking a bureaucratic mechanism for the redistribution of wealth and benefits, both Greek and Roman rulers relied upon the social networks defined by elites and their extended circles of family, friends, and clients as means both of social control and of redistribution. Cultic associations, collegia domestica, and trade guilds served these functions eminently well, for they represented social networks spanning various levels or sectors of society and providing relatively stable systems through which power was channeled and various benefits disbursed. 7
7 Capper (1998: 514) is incorrect in suggesting that voluntary associations are never oriented toward ensuring the well-being of their members. On the Romans' use of patronage as social control that maintained the dependence of the poor on the elite see Wallace-Hadrill (1989: 71-78).
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
It is the latter two aspects of benefaction, among friends and within voluntary associations, that hold particular interest for our understanding of Acts 5: 11l.8 Luke's presentation of the foundational stage of the early Christian community at Jerusalem is couched in the language offriendship. The believers are said to hold "all things in common" (eixov
anana KOt va; Acts 2:44),
which would bring to mind for the Greco-Roman reader the Hellenistic topos of friendship.9 For the most part, this "community of goods" was not a legal arrangement, but a knowledge that affection for one's friends would move one to put one's goods at their disposal when the need arose (cf. Klinghardt 1994: 255).10 In some cases the epigraphic record suggests that the strong bond of friendship could lead to the establishing of a voluntary association. An example of this can be found in the regulations of an association in Athens during the imperial period (lG 22.1369, probably the second century CE). 11 The inscription
8 Within this category of "associations" we can also include Jewish synagogues, as Richardson (1996) has cogently shown, and even the Qumran community (Klinghardt 1994). Capper spends considerable energy showing the existence of Essene communities in Jerusalem during the first century CE (1995a: 1752-60; 1995b: 341-50). Yet he (esp. 1983 and 1995b) is influenced too much by his assumption of the historicity of the Lukan accounts, and thus a search for a genealogical antecedent within Jerusalem in the thirties CEo Furthermore, since Luke was writing at a time when the Qumran/Essene communities had vanished and/or Luke's community was located outside Palestine, where these Jewish groups were relatively unknown, the Essenes cannot be seen as the best analogy for Luke's audience. Yet, even if one were to grant Capper's general assertion of the relevance of the Essene community for understanding the early Jerusalem Christian community (Capper 1983: 1995a: 1995b), Klinghardt's argument (1994: 252) that "the closest parallels to the Manual of Discipline in regard to genre and contents are statutes of Hellenistic associations" ultimately points toward the voluntary associations (italics his). The similarities make it more likely that the group behind the documents "was a religiolls association, rather than a cenobitic 'sect'" (Klinghardt 1994: 252: see also Weinfeld 1986). 9 This is also true of Luke's comment that the believers "were of one heart and soul" (Acts 4:32). See further Dupont (1979: 85-102);Johnson (1977: 187): Capper (1995b: 324-25): Sterling (1994: 686-96). 10 In antiquity friendship was based morc on social and political reciprocity than on emotional attachment (Moxnes 1991: 245). 11 Abbreviations of papyri cited: ClL, Corpus inscriptionum latinarum, ed. the Berlin Royal Academy. Berlin: Reimer, 1863-1974; CU, Corpus inscriptionum iudaicarum, ed. ]. B. Frey. Rome: Pontificio istituto di archeologia cristiana, 1936-52; MAMA, Monumenta asiae minoris antiqua, eds. J. Keilet aI. ManchesterlLondon: Manchester University Press/Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies, 1928-62: SEG, Supplementum epigraphicum graecum, eds. P. Roussel et al. Lugduni Batavorum: Sij thoff, 1923-; 00 IS, Orientis graeci inscriptiones selectae. Lipsiae: Hirzel, 1903-1905; IAlex(K). Recueil des inscriptions grecques et latines (non
99
BENEFACTION GONE WRONG
notes that "male friends convened a dub and by common council established an ordinance of friendship." 12 Then follows the "law of the
epavlO't'wv";
It is not lawful for anyone to emer this most holy assembly without being first examined as to whether he is holy and pious and good. Let the patron [1tpoo't'a't'1lC;] and the chief eranistes, and the secretary, and the treasurers and the syndics examine [the candidate]. And let these be chosen by lot each year except the patron .... And let the club increase by zeal for honour. The inscription becomes fragmented shortly after this point, but the next few lines record the punishments faced by those who cause disturbances within the association meetings (expulsion, fines and "blows"). Interest in honour is characteristic of most voluntary associations. An inscription from Piraeus
(178-77 BCE) is typical of many set up by associations
to honour benefactors. Hermes, the treasurer of the association (KOWOV), is honoured by the group for having proved himself beneficent both to the general membership and to the individual members, putting himself at the disposal of each, and being both eager that the appropriate sacrifices to the gods be made and paying for these frequently, generously, and often from his own resources, and also for
funeraires) d'Alexandrie imperiale. Caire: Institut Fran\;ais d' Archeologie Orientale du Caire, 1994; IDelos, Inscriptions de Delos: Decrets posterieurs a 166 avo J.-c. (nos. 1497-1524). Dedicaces posterieures a 166 avo J-C. (nos. 1525-2219), eds. P. Roussel and M. Launey. Paris: Librairie Ancienne Honore Champion, 1937; lKios, Die 1nschriften von Kios, ed. T. Corsten. Bonn: Habelt, 1985-; DFS}, Donateurs et fondateurs dans les synagogues juives: Repenoires des dedicaces grecques relatives a!a construction et ala refection des synagogues, ed. B. Lifshitz. Paris: Gabalda. 1967; LSAM, Lois sacrees de l'Asie Mineure. ed. F. Sokolowski. Paris: De Boccard, 1955; 1G. lnscriptiones graecae, eds. F. H. von Gaertringen et al. Berlin: De Gruyter, 1890-; CBP, Cities and Bishoprics of Phrygia, ed. W. M. Ramsay. 2 vols. Oxford: Clarendon, 1895-97; IMakedD, Sy/loge inscriptionum graecarum et latinarum Macedoniae, ed. M. O. Dimitsas. Chicago: Ares, 1980 [1896]; IEph, Die Inschriften von Ephesos, eds. H. Wankel et al. Bonn: Habelt. 1979-84; 1MagnMai, Die 1nschriften von Magnesia am Maeander, ed. T. Ihnken. Berlin: De Gruyter, 1967 [1900]; [Smyrna, Die 1nschriften von Smyrna, ed. G. Petzl. Bonn: Habelt. 1982-90; 1Knidos, Die Inschriften von Knidos, ed. W. Bhimel. Bonn: Habelt, 1992. 12 For "friends" (<jJUOl) as members of an association see also [Smyrna 720; 10 7.3224; 10 1219.39 (Boeotia, leE); SE~ 29.1188; 29.1195; 31.1038; Denkschriften der Osterreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philologisch-historische Klasse 80 (1962): 59; Zeitschrift fur Papyrologie und Epigraphik 44 (1981): 89 no.19; perhaps fO 21.1275; cf. Kloppenborg (1995: 15).
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some who had died, when the association had no money, he paid for the tomb so that even though they have died they might remain noble, and [he I made expenditures for repairs and he was the one who organized the original collection of the common fund, and he continually talks about and advises what is best and in all things shows himself to be high minded. (IG 2z.1327, lines 5-16; cf. IG 2z.1343)
In another inscription from Piraeus (IG 22.1263) the members of an associa tion (KOt vov)
of fhaa&)'t«~ honour one of their members, Demitrios, who has
acted as secretary, by granting him a crown, a statue and public proclamation of his worthiness. Among the deeds for which Dcmitrios is praised is the proper administration of the association's funds (much of which would have been outof-pocket expenses for Demitrios) and, notably, the return of a financial reward given to him by the association from its common fund. The public record of the benefaction of Demitrios and the honours granted to him are meant to goad others, that they roo "shall be zealous for honour [tAOt'tj.LWvt'at] among the members, knowing that they will receive thanks from the members deserving of the benefaction" (ll. 27-32)Y These inscriptions suggest that the receipt of honour was one of the primary motivations for benefaction within associations. 14 Such benefaction could take many forms. For example, a benefaction of cash is widely attested. 15 Property could be used for a benefaction to an association, through either a gift of Land,16 or the donation of all or part of a building. 17 Benefaction to an association could also be done by a husband and wife together. In a first- or second-century BeE inscription from Citium (Cyprus) we have an example of an entire family honoured for theif benefaction to an association of Artemis: With good fortune, Soanteion and the thiasos of Artemis honoured Timocrates, son of Stasioikos, and his wife Timagion and their daughter
13 See also 1021.1292,1297, 1301 (Piraeus, III BCE). 14 For other examples of honorary inscriptions set up by associations see OGIS 50, 51 (Egypt, III BCE); 10 1l!4.1061 (Delos, II BCE); 1021.1343 (Athens, 37-6 BCE); 10 1211.155 (Rhodes, I BCE); IAlex(K) 91 (Alexandria, IV-V CE); !Delos 1522 (II CE); Foucart 1873: 59 (Tra\les); IKios 22. 15 For example, !Delos 1519, 1520, 1521; LSAM 9; IEph 2212; IMagnMai 117; CIL 3.633; CIL 14.2112; Collart 1937: 374-75 n.3, no.8. 16 For example, 1010/2.259,260; 1012/1.736; CIL 3.659; CBP 455. 1710 12I1.937;MAMA6.239;CU 1.694, 1404, 1432;DFSJ33;cf.thebuildingofavaulted tomb for association members in ISmyrna 218.
101
BENEFACTION GONE WRONG
Timas and her daughter Aristion and his sons Stasioikos, BOlskon, Aristokreon, and Aristolochos; and Stasioikos, son of Timocrates, his daughter Karion, Bolskon's son Timokrates, on account of the highmindedness that they have shown to them [the 8iaaoc;1. (Faucart 1873: 55)
In a similar fashion, an undated inscription from the Gulf of Syme (Foucart 1873: 56) records honours set up by a number of associations for at least two couples: Alexander and his wife Nysa are honoured with a golden crown by the Adonistai, the Aphrodistiastai and the Asclepiastai; Epaphrodite and his wife are likewise honoured with a golden crown by the Herolsts and the Oiaciasts. A first-century BCE inscription records that a man and his wife are to be honoured "for all time" by a
KOWOV
for contributions directed toward the
association's buildings and furnishings (LG 12/1.937). The list goes on. An inscription set up to commemorate those who "freely chose to assist the association [e(cwo~J" includes among its honourees Euhemeros and his wife, who contributed 10 drachmae (the smallest of the sums listed, which range from 10 to 300 drachmae; IKnidos 23, II BCE). IG 12/7 .58 (Amorgos, undated) notes the boundaries of the lands, along with the house and gardens, that Xenokles pledged, with the concurrence of his wife and her
KUplO~,
to an association (eptXvoc;). At Philippi a Latin inscription
records the dedication of a sanctuary to Liber and Libera and Hercules by Gaius Valerius Fortunatus and his wife Marronia Eutycia (Collart 1937: 414 n.1). Such husband and wife benefaction was also known within Jewish circles. For example, a building in first- or second-century BCE Egypt is dedicated as a "Papous constructed this 7tpOOEUX~ on his own behalf and on that of his wife and his children" (Fox 1917: 411-12).18 7tPOOEUXtl:
In light of similar evidence Uhlhorn (1883: 28) suggests that it is within the Greco-Roman associations that one finds "for the first time anything approaching to the life of a Christian community" (cf. 1883: 31). "Houses, pieces ofland, capital sums were either presented or bequeathed to them [the associations], in order that, on appointed days, a sportula, a distribution of bread, wine, or money, might be made amongst their members" (1883: 24). He argues that the system of charity in Christianiry goes beyond that of the
18 For other examples of husbands and wives involved in benefacting associations see Coli an (1937: 374-75 nJ, no.B); lMakedD 920; cf. CIL 3.707; 10 10/2.506.
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
associations insofar as it is completely voluntary and that distributions are made more deliberately to the poor and needy (1883: 32), rather than expended on banquets and burials (1883: 23-25). Nevertheless, the associations still form an analogous backdrop for understanding the early Christian community in Jerusalem (cf. 1883: 24,27). The widespread practice of associations setting up honours for their benefactors makes it reasonable for Ananias and Sapphira to expect that in return for their benefaction they would have received the honours due to them. In an attempt to extract more honour than they are due, however, they claim to have given over the entire proceeds of the sale of their land. To have done
so would be deemed more generous, and thus deserving of more honour, than to have given only a portion. Capper (1995a: 1742) suggests that Ananias and Sapphira would garner U
a degree of admiration" only in the case that benefaction through the selling
of property was rare. He suggests that since it was not rare within the Christian community admiration would not follow-"the more common such propertydonations were, the less fame and reputation there was to be gained from an affected self-elevation into the limelight" (1995a: 1742). Thus, Ananias was not "motivated by a desire for special praise" (1995a: 1743). As our inscriptions show, however, benefaction was commonplace and yet accorded great honour, and it was often accompanied by the suggestion that others should follow suit in supporting the group. It is precisely because dispersing one's wealth was commonplace that we should read this text in the context of benefaction.
3. Luke's View of Benefaction This understanding of the story of Ananias and Sapphira in light of benefaction fits within Luke's larger view of benefaction throughout the Gospel and Acts.
It is clear from the outset that Luke and his community rely on patronage. Luke opens his Gospel by addressing his patron by using an honorific: [1] t U
seemed good to me ... to write an orderly account for you, most excellent Theophilus" (Luke 1:3; cf. Acts 1: 1; Moxnes 1991: 267; Fitzmyer 1981: 300). The honorific Kpan01;oc; is used three other times by Luke, each case in an address
to
a Roman official (Acts 23:26; 24:3; 26:25), indicative of the high
regard accorded Theophilus. Elsewhere in Luke we find women who support Jesus' ministry by providing from their own resources (Luke 8:1-3). On two
BENEFACTION GONE WRONG
103
separate occasions centurions arc noted for their benefaction to the Jewish people, and both receive God's blessing upon them in turn (Luke 7:1-10; Acts 10:1-8,31,44-48). Benefaction within the Christian eKKA'Ilo{o: is suggested through the use of houses for meetings (12:12; 16:40; cf. 20:6-8). Luke uses the term "benefactor" (EUEpyi't'llC;) in only one passage, Luke 22:24_27. 19 Jesus responds to a dispute among the disciples as to who would be the greatest with an emphasis on service and humility, unlike the power structures in the Greco-Roman world, where the "kings of the Gentiles exercise lordship over them; and those in authority over them are called benefactors" (Luke 22:25). Luke has taken this passage from Mark 10:41-45 and relocated it in the Last Supper discourse. In doing so he has nuanced it differently. Most
Significantly, Mark's initial indication of "the supposed rulers [oi. OOKOUV't'EC;
apXEl v] over the Gentiles" has been changed to "the kings [ot po:alAeic;] of the Gentiles," and then Luke has added the note that these kings are called benefactors (EuEpyenH Ko:AOUV'tO:l). In contrast, the disciples are not to claim such titles or authority for themselves, despite their privileged place within the kingdom (Luke 22: 28-30). Although they perform a service they do not receive status or honour in exchange (Moxnes 1991: 261). For Luke, Jesus overturns the usual categories of benefaction and honour. 20 Jesus himself states that he is among others "as one who serves" (Luke 22:27). Through his miracles he seems to broker God's patronage for the people (Moxnes 1991: 258-60). Nevertheless, he never claims the honour due him. A point of contrast with the actions of Ananias and Sapphira can be found in the Gospel story ofZacchaeus (Luke 19: 1-10). Like Ananias and Sapphira. Zacchaeus has a secret about his personal finances. His secret, however. is the fact that he distributes it to others. When pushed by the criticism of the crowds he announces that he "already" gives half of his possessions to the poor and
19 Luke also uses €U€PY€(J(cx for Peter's good deed of healing a lame man (Acts 4:9), and €:v€pyeriw in recalling the deeds of}esus (Acts 10:38). 20 On the importance of benefaction to the writer of Luke-Acts see Danker (1976, esp. 6-17; 1988, esp. 5.10). Yet despite Danker's recognition of the importance of benefaction to Luke in his study of epigraphic texts and the New Testament, he (1982) makes no connection between benefaction and the actions of Ananias and Sapphira. This is particularly odd in light of the fact that Danker sees in Acts 2:44 and 4:32 clear evidence for Luke viewing as benefactors those who contribute to the holding of all things in common within the community (1982: 333). Capper (1998: 516-18) also notes Luke's interest in shifting the boundaries of benefaction but does not link Acts 5: 1·11 to this concern.
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repays fourfold anyone he may have defrauded (Luke 19:8).21 Despite his marginal status as tax-collector, and thus "sinner," Zacchaeus's encounter with Jesus is seemingly the first time he has articulated his actions publicly. Despite his obvious benefaction, he has not sought out the honours that were due him. 22 The significant contrast with Ananias and Sapphira lies in that which is received for one's actions. Unlike the death of Ananias and Sapphira, Zacchaeus receives praise from Jesus in the pronouncement that "salvation" (ow1:llP(a) has arrived, a declaration that also serves to restore him to his
place within the community (cf. Malina and Rohrbaugh 1992: 387). Other passages are likewise suggestive of a counter-cultural view of benefaction, not in terms of the cessation of the practice, but in terms of the expectation of rewards or honours. For example, in Luke 12:33-34 disciples are urged: Sell your possessions, and give alms; provide yourselves with purses that do not grow old, with a treasure in the heavens that does not fail, where no thief approaches and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. This is followed up later by the injunction to the rich ruler to "sell all that you have and distribute to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven" (Luke
18:22), an invitation too difficult for the man to accept. It is only when we get to Acts 2-5 that we find the attempt being made to fulfil this command in full,
at least within the Christian community. The suggested expectation for one who has sold everything is "treasure in heaven" rather than "honour on earth." In lying about the extent of their donation to the Christian community, Ananias and Sapphira were attempting to gain for themselves not only honour on earth, but greater honour on earth than they deserved. For Luke they serve as an example of worldly benefaction, wherein honours are received here and now. This motivation, however, causes them to lie about the extent of their benefaction and they are struck down.
21 The verb tenses are in the present rather than the future, and thus should be taken to refer to actions already in progress; see Fitzmyer (1985: 1220-21, 1225); Malina and Rohrbaugh (1992: 387). 22 In one regard Moxnes (1991: 255) is correct in stating that Zacchaeus "is never portrayed as a patron" insofar as he never receives the requisite honour due a patron. In his use of money, however, he is acting as a benefactor to those who receive his largesse.
BENEFACTION GONE WRONG
105
The story serves as a warning to those who would be benefactors in Luke's own Christian community, but who might expect honours in exchange. The message is not "give everything or else," but "do not seek recognition for more than you have contributed." One might act as benefactor without having to donate the complete amount of land or property to the association. For example, when Polycharmos donates a portion of his house to the local synagogue in Stobi, the dedicatory inscription makes it very clear that the rights to part of the property are to be retained by Polycharmos and his heirs (CU 1.694; cf. elL 3.659).
4. Conclusion Through these passages we see that Luke is presenting for his audience a message about benefaction. In fact, these passages seem to indicate that Luke is attempting to transform the culturally defined pattern of patron-client relationships and benefaction within his community (Moxnes 1991: 257, 265). While benefaction remains a necessary part of Christian communal existence, Luke wants to warn any potential benefactors that they should not expect praise (cf. Moxnes 1991; 266). Set within the larger context of both Luke-Acts and the world of the voluntary associations, the story of Ananias and Sapphira is a cautionary tale about wanting honours for benefaction, and a warning against those who act according to human conventions rather than divine conventions. 23 While their "sin" is their lie, their motivation is the desire for greater worldly honour. Their reward for holding back part of the proceeds while claiming to give them all was death. Clearly this is a case of benefaction gone wrong.
23 Moxnes (1991: 264-65) suggests that Luke's presentation of the people placing the proceeds from the sale ofland at the feet of the apostles turns the apostles into brokers of the benefaction of others. In distributing the goods on behalf of others, the apostles disallow the necessity for honour to be passed back onto the benefactors.
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References Barrett, C. K.
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The Acts of the Apostles. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark.
Bartchy, S. Scott 1991 "Community of Goods in Acts: Idealization or Social Reality?" In Birger A. Pearson (ed.), The Future of Early Christianity: Essays in Honor of Helmut Koester, 309-18. Minneapolis: Fortress. Boismard, M. E. and A. Lamouille 1990 Les Actes des deux apotres. 3 vols. New York: Norton. Bruce, F. F. 1988 (1951) The Book of Acts. Third ed. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Capper, Brian J. 1983 "The Interpretation of Acts 5.4." Journal for the Study of the New Testament 19: 117-3l. 1986 '''In Jer Hand Jes Ananias': Erwagungcn zu lQS VI,20 und der urchristlichen GGtergemeinschaft." Revue de Qumran 12: 223-36. 1995a "Community of Goods in the Early Jerusalem Church." In Wolfgang Haase (ed.) , AufstiegundNiedergangderromischen Welt, 2.26.2.1730· 74. Berlin: De Gruyter. 1995b "The Palestinian Cultural Context of Earliest Christian Community of Goods." In Richard Bauckham (ed.), The Book of Acts in Its First
Century Setting, Vol. 4: The Book of Acts in Its Palestinian Setting, 32356. Grand Rapids/Carlisle: EerdmansIPaternoster. "Reciprocity and the Ethic of Acts." In 1. Howard Marshall and David Peterson (eds.), Witness to the Gospel: The Theology of Acts, 499-518. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Cassidy, Richard J. 1987 Society and Politics in the Acts of the Apostles. Maryknoll: Orbis. Collart, Paul 1998
1937
Philippes, ville de Macedoine, dupuis ses origines jusqu'dla fin de l'epoque romaine. Paris: Boccard.
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Luke. Philadelphia: Fortress. Benefactor: Epigraphic Study of a Graeeo-Roman and New Testament Semantic Field. St. Louis: Clayton. (1972) Jesus and the New Age: A Commentary on St. Luke's Gospel.
Second ed. Philadelphia: Fortress. Derrett, J. Duncan M. 1971 "Ananias, Sapphira, and the Right of Property." Doumside Review 89: 225-32.
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Duling, Dennis C. 1995a "The Matthean Brotherhood and Marginal Scribal Leadership." In Philip F. Esler (ed.), Modelling Early Christianity: Social-Scientific Studies of the New Testament in Its Context, 159-82. London;New York: Routledge. "Social-Scientific Small Group Research and Second Testament 1995b Study." Biblical Theology Bulletin 25: 179-93. Dunn, James D. G. 1996 The Acts of the Apostles. Valley Forge: Trinity Press International. Dupont, Jacques 1979 [1967] The Salvation of the Gentiles: Studies in the Acts of the Apostles. Trans. John R. Keating. New York: Paulist. Elliott, John H. "Patronage and Clientage." In Richard Rohrbaugh (ed.), The Social 1996 Sciences and New Testament lnterpretation, 144-56. Peabody: Hendrickson. Fitzmyer, Joseph A. 1981 The Gospel According to Luke, Vol. 1. New York: Doubleday. 1985 The Gospel According to Luke, Vol. 2. New York: Doubleday. Forkman, Gyouran 1972 The Limits of Religious Community: Expulsion from the Religious
Community Within the Qumran Sect, Within Rabbinic Judaism, and Within Primitive Christianity. Lund: Gleerup. Foucart, Paul Fran~ois 1873
Des associatioTJ5 religieuses chez les grecs: Thiases, erancs, orgeons. Paris:
Klingksieck. Fox, W. S. 1917
"Greek Inscriptions in the Royal Ontario Museum." AmericanJoumal
of Philology 38: 411-12. Garnsey, Peter and Richard P. Saller 1987 The Roman Empire: Economy, Society and Culture. London: Duckworth. Haenchen, Ernst 1971 [1965] The Acts of the Apostles: A Commentary. Trans. Bernard Noble, Gerald Shinn, Hugh Anderson and Robert MeL. Wilson. Oxford: Blackwell. Havelaar, Henriette. 1997 "Hellenistic Parallels to Acts 5.1-11 and the Problem of Conflicting Interpretations." Journal for the Study of the New Testament 67: 63-82.
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Jeremias, Joachim 1969 [1962) Jerusalem in the Time of Jesus: An Investigation into Economic and Social Conditions during the New Testament Period. Trans. F. H. Cave and C. H. Cave. Philadelphia: Fortress. Johnson, Luke Timothy 1977 The Literary Function of Possessions in Luke-Acts. Missoula: Scholars Press. 1992 The Acts of the Apostles. Collegeville: Liturgical Press. Klinghardt, Matthias "The Manual of Discipline in the Light of Statues of Hellenistic 1994 Associations." In John J. Collins, Michael O. Wise, Norman Golb and Dennis Pardee (eds.), Methods of Investigation of the Dead Sea
Scrolls and the Khirbet Qumran Site: Present Realities and Future Prospects, 251-70. New York: New York Academy of Sciences. Kloppenborg, John S. 1995 "Status and Conflict Resolution in Early Christian Groups." Unpublished Paper Presented at the Toronto School of Theology Biblical Department Seminar, September. "Collegia and Thiasoi: Issues in Function, Taxonomy and 1996 Membership." In John S. Kloppenburg and Stephen G. Wilson (eds.) , Voluntary Associations in the Graeco-Roman World, 16-30. London! New York: Routledge. Lake, Kirsopp 1933 "The Communism of Acts II. and IY.-VI. and the Appointment of the Seven." In Kirsopp Lake and Henry J. Cadbury (eds.), The Beginnings of Christianity, Part I: The Acts of the Apostles, 5.140-51. London: Macmillan. Ludemann, Gerd
1987
Early Christianity According to the Traditions in Acts: A Commentary. Minneapolis: Fortress.
Malina, Bruce J.
1995
"Early Christian Groups: Using Small Group Formation Theory to Explain Christian Organizations." In Esler, Modelling Early
Christianity,96-113. Malina, Bruce J. and Richard L. Rohrbaugh
1992
Social· Science Commentary on the Synoptic Gospels. Minneapolis:
Fortress. Marguerat, Daniel 1993 "La mort d'Ananias et Saphira (Ac 5.1-11) dans lastrategie narrative de Luc." New Testament Studies 39: 209·26.
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Marshall, I. Howard
1980
The Acts of the Apostles: An Introduction and Commentary. Grand
Rapids: Eerdmans. Moxnes, Halvor 1991 "Patron-Client Relations and the New Community in Luke-Acts." In Jerome H. Neyrey (ed.), The Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation, 241-68. Peabody: Hendrickson. Munck, Johannes 1967 The Acts of the Apostles: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. New York: Doubleday. Neil, William 1973 The Acts of the Apostles. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. O'Toole, Robert F. 1995 '''You Did Not Lie to Us (Human Beings) but to God' (Acts 5,4c)." Biblica 76: 182-209. Pesch, Rudolf 1986 Die Apostelgeschichte. 2 vols. NeukirchenNluyn: Neukirchener Verlag. Rackham, Richard Belward 1901 The Acts of the Apostles: An Exposition. London: Methuen. Richardson, Peter 1996 "Early Synagogues as Collegia in the Diaspora and Palestine." In Kloppenborg and Wilson, Voluntary Associations in the Graeco-Roman
World,90-109. Schmithals, Walter
1982 Die Apostelgeschichte des Lukas. Zurich: Theologischer Verlag. Seccombe, David P. 1978 "Was There Organized Charity in Jerusalem Before the Christians?" Journal of Theological Studies 29: 140-43. Sterling, Gregory E. 1994 '''Athletes of Virtue': An Analysis of the Summaries in Acts (2:4147; 4:32-35; 5: 12-16)." Journal of Biblical Literature 113: 679-96. Talbert, Charles H. 1997 Reading Acts: A Literary and Theological Commentary on the Acts uf the Apostles. New York: Crossroad. Uhlhorn, Gerhard 1883 Christian Charity in the Ancient Church. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. Walaskay, Paul W. 1998 Acts. Louisville: WestminsterIJohn Knox.
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Wallace-Hadrill, Andrew 1989 "Patronage in Roman Society: From Republic to Empire." In Andrew Watlace-Hadrill (ed.), Patronage in Ancient Society, 63-87. London/New Yark: Routledge. Weinfeld, Moshe 1986 The Organizational Pattern and the Penal Code of the Qumran Sect: A
Comparison with Guilds and Religious Associations of the Hellenistic Period. G6ttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Williams, Charles Stephan Conway 1964 [19571 A Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles. Second cd. London: Adam and Charles Black. Witherington, Ben, III 1998 The Acts of the Apostles: A Socia-Rhetorical Commentary. Grand Rapids/Carlisle: Eerdmans/Paternoster.
8 ISAIAH 5:1-7, THE PARABLE OF THE TENANTS AND VINEYARD LEASES ON PAPYRUS JOHN S. KLOPPENBORG VERBIN
Mark's parable of the tenants (Mark 12: 1- 12) has from the beginning of parables resea~h presented difficulties. It is one of the few parables that contains an obvious allusion to the Tanak and one whose point seems largely dependent on allegorization. While it is clear that Matthew, and certainly later Christian writers, displayed a strong tendency to interpret the parable as allegory, the dominant (though hardly unanimous) assumption in modern parables interpretation is that Jesus did not tell stories that required an allegorical code for their intelligibility. Hence, Synoptic parables are normaUy stripped of allegorical details in order to arrive at the "original" level. A parable that resists de-allegorization or whose point appears to require allegory, therefore, offers special problems. Either it must be treated as inauthentic, the creation of some later tradent; or, if a case for authenticity could be made, it constitutes evidence that might undermine a dominant assumption of parables research.!
Abbreviations of papyri cited: BO U, Agyptische Urkunden aus den koniglichen {staatlichen1 Museen zu Berlin, Griechische Urkunden. Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1895-1912; CPR, Corpus Papyrorum Raineri, eds. C. Wessely et al. Wien: Verlag der kaiserlichen koniglichen Hot~ und Staatsdruckerei, 1895-1995; PAmh, The Amherst Papyri, eds. B. P. Grenfell and A. S. Hunt. London: H. Frowde, 1900-1901; PBerlFrisk, Bankakten aus dem Faijum nebst anderen Berliner Papyri, ed. H. Frisk. Goteborg: Elander Boktr., 1931; PBerlLeihg, Berliner Leihgabe griechischer Papyri, cds. T. Kalen and the Greek Seminar at Uppsala. Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 1932-77; PCairMasp, Papyrus grecs d'cpoque byzantine, cd. ]. Maspero. Le Caire: Institut franfHis d'archeologie orientale, 1911- 13; PCairZen, Zenon Papyri, ed. C. C. Edgar. Le Caire: lnstittlt fran~ais d'archeologie orientale, 1925-40; PCoIZen, Columbia Papyri. III: Zenon Paj)yri: Business Papers of the Third Century B.C. Dealing with Palestine and E&'YPt, eds. W. L. Westermann and E. S. Hasenoehrl. New York: Columbia University Press, 1934-40; PEdg, "Selected Papyri from the Archives of Zenon," cd. C. C. Edgar. Annales du Service des Amiquites de l'Egypte 18-24 (1918-24); PFlor, Papiri
112
TEXT AND ARTIFACf
1. The Problem of Realism in the Parable
The parable in Mark narrates one story but contains intertextual "tags" that refer to another. The first narrative is of a vineyard owner who leases a vineyard to tenants who, in violation of an implied tenancy agreement, default on their obligations. His several attempts to extract the rent result in the abuse of his agents and the death of his son, and, in turn, his destruction of the tenants and the re-Ieasing of the property. The parable in Mark invokes a second story, borrowed from Isaiah 5: 1-7, and by means of the intertextual tag causes the first narrative to be read in the light of the second. The second narrative is of a vineyard owner who builds a wall, plants a vineyard, tends it and, contrary to reasonable expectation, finds it producing thorns. His recourse is to break down the wall and to let the plot ofland return to its original wild state. The two narratives obviously intersect at several points: both have to do with an owner and his vineyard and both involve scenarios in which the owner's reasonable expectations for gain are frustrated; in both cases he takes remedial steps that adversely affect the vineyard (lsa 5:5-6) or the tenants (Mark 12:9). From the point of view of style, the remedy of the owner is
greco·egizii, Papiri Florentini, ed. G. Vitelli. Milan: U. Hoepli, 1906·15; PGiss, Griechische Papyri im Museum des oberhessischen Geschichtsvereins zu Giessen, eds. O. Eger, E. Komemann and P. M. Meyer. LeipzigfBerlin: Museum des oberhessischen Geschichtsvereins zu Giessen, 1910·12; PHamb, Griechische Papyrusurkunden der Hamburger Staats· und Universitilts· bibliothek, ed. P. M. Meyer. LeipziglBerlin: Teubner, 1911·1984; PHarr, The Rendel Harris Papyri of Woodbrooke College, Birmingham, eds. J. E. Powell et al. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1936·85; PKaln, KaIner Papyri, eds. B. Kramer et al. Ofpladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1976·1991; PlAur, Dai Papiri della Biblioteca Medicea lAurenziana, cd. R. Pintaudi. Hrmzc: Gonnelli, 1976·84; PLond, Greek Papyri in the British Museum, eds. F. G. Kenyon, H. 1. Bell, W. E. Crum and T. C. Skeat. London: British Museum, 1893·74; POxy, The Oxyrhynchus Papyri, eds. B. P. Grenfell et aI. London: Egypt Exploration Society, 1898·; PRyl, Catalogue of the Greek Papyri in the John Rylallds Ubrary, Manchester, eds. A. S. Hunt et al. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1911·52; PSI, Papin gred e latini, eds. Girolamo Vitelli et al. Firenze: Le Monnier, 1912·79; PTebe, The Tebtullis Papyri, eds. B. P. Grenfell et al. London: Oxford University Press, 1902·76; PVindSal, Einige Wiener Papyri, ed. R. P. Salomons. Amsterdam: Hakkert, 1976; SB, Sammelbuch griechischer Urkunden aus Agypten, eds. F. Preisigke and F. Bilabel. Strassburg/Wiesbaden: Trubner, 1915·; StudPal, Studien zur Palaeographie und Papyrus·kunde, eds. C. Wessely et aI. Leipzig: Avenarius, 1901.24.
VINEYARD LEASES ON PAPYRUS
113
introduced by a question, "What more shall I do for my vineyard and what have I done for it?" (lsa 5:4), or "What then shall the owner of the vineyard do?" (Mark 12:9). From the point of view of genre, the Isaian text is a juridical parable (Yee 1981), told against the house ofIsrael and the men ofJudah (Isa 5: 7). In both Isaiah 5: 1-7 and Nathan's juridical parable of the ewe, the force of the parable rests on the realism of the story, which provokes the hearers to render a judgment on the case cited, unaware that in doing so they condemn themselves (Simon 1967: 220-21). The juridical aspects of Mark's story are also clear, for it is told against the chief priests, scribes and elders (Mark 11:27; 12: 12), who clearly are expected to understand the parable as an allegory. The Markan story as it stands is somewhat less realistic than Nathan's parable or Isaiah 5: 1-7, but the judgment in Mark 12:9 follows reasonably naturally from the outrages committed by the Markan tenants. Modern interpretation of the parable has proceeded along three contradictory lines. The first view, epitomized by AdolfJulicher (1898-99) and seen more recently in Ernst Kummel (1950) and Charles Carlston (1975; 178-
90), proceeds on the assumption that Jesus' (authentic) parables were not allegories and that since Mark 12; 1-9 cannot be de-allegorized, it is probably not authentic. It is argued, for example, that the sending of the "beloved son" and his murder so obviously recalls the death of Jesus that it cannot be ascribed to the historical Jesus; and the tenants' incredible expectation of inheriting a vineyard so resists a realistic reading that it can only have been formulated with Mark's polemic against the priestly rulers in view. A second exegetical tradition, represented by C. H. Dodd (1936), Joachim Jeremias (1952; 1970), John Dominic Crossan (1971) and Michel Hubaut (1976), agrees that Jesus' parables were not allegories, but proposes an "original" reading that is realistic, presupposing ordinary economic, social and political features of life in Jewish Palestine. The parable, so this tradition assumes, was originally intended as a story that would be immediately comprehensible to a Galilean or Judean audience without recourse to a special allegorical code. This line of interpretation has, in some forms, argued that the allusions to Isaiah 5: 1-7 and the quotation of Psalm 118:22 are secondary insertions, added in an effort to create an allegory amenable to later Christian usage.
114
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The final line of interpretation, represented in very recent scholarship by Klyne Snodgrass (1983), Bruce Chilton (1984), George Brooke (1995), Craig Evans (1996), Johannes de Moor (1998) and Wim Weren (1998), agrees with Jiilicher that Mark 12: 1-12 cannot be read except as an allegory, by virtue of the intertextual allusions to Isaiah 5:1-7. But by pointing out that the interpretation of Isaiah's vineyard as Israel or Jerusalem and its cult was a contemporary one in Jesus' day (Tg. Isa.
to
5:1-7; 4Q500), these authors
propose that the parable as it stands in Mark makes good sense as a story that Jesus directed against the priestly rulers of Jerusalem. There are far too many issues involved in the exegesis of this parable to treat in a short essay. What I should like to address is the rather narrow issue, raised by Dodd and Jeremias, of whether it is possible to recover a simple, realistic story behind the present form of the parable. Relying mainly on what we know from papyri about vineyard leases, I shall argue, first, that the juxtaposition of the Isaian story with the tenancy story creates an incoherence in the story that prevents the narrative from being read realistically and requires that it be read allegorically; and second, that the version preserved in the Gospel of Thomas , which lacks these incoherences, seems the best candidate for the earliest version of the story. Julicher found it impossible to read the parable realistically: The man who leases his vineyard to unreliable tenants, without any legal guarantees when he leaves the country, who sacrifices one servant after another to the brutal mistreatment of those good-for-nothings without noticing the futility of his system, and, when all his servants have been murdered nevertheless offers his only son when he also possesses the power at the end to dispatch (he tenants and the desire to find yet another set of farmers-this is a vineyard owner who is every bit as unlikely a being as tenants who not only withhold from the owner what belongs to him, but engage in meaningless provocation and calculate the murder of the son without taking the owner himself into account! Oillicher 1910: 2.402) Julicher took the quotation of Psalm 118:22 in Mark 12: 10-11 to be a secondary accretion. Whoever added it, he suggested, considered the retribution described in Mark 12:9 to be an inadequate conclusion to the story, and hence introduced the notion of the humiliation and exaltation of the Son=stone. While Mark 12:9 metes out punishment for the violation of the
V1NEYARD LEASES ON PAPYRUS
115
tenancy agreement and the outrages committed on the owner's agents, and holds out the possibility of the owner fulfilling his original aims in the re-Ietting of the vineyard, Psalm 118:22 introduces the entirely extraneous notion that one of the agents (the son) achieves a special prominence, but in a manner wholly unrelated to the particulars of the tenancy story. It is patently a reference to Jesus' resurrection and exaltation and as such does not belong to the tenancy story. As Jillicher noted, moreover, the insertion creates something of an aporia, since the reaction of the interlocutors (Mark 12: 12) has nothing to do with the Psalm quotation; it is the parable (Mark 12:1-9) that is "told against" the rulers, not Psalm 118:22, which is directed to entirely different (christological) ends. Could the parable, stripped of vv. 10-12, be regarded as authentic? Julicher here was cautious: Mark 12:6-8 might be regarded as a vaticinium ex eventu. But it could not be denied in principle that Jesus regarded himself as the son, especially when he compared his activities with those of the prophets and John. And in view of Mark 14:21-24, he may well have anticipated his death at the hands of the authorities. Jiilicher, moreover, thought that Matthew's additional saying (21:43) aptly captured Jesus' attitude toward the "official representatives ofJewish piety." Nevertheless, he saw as just as likely the supposition that Mark 12: 1-9 was the composition of an early Christian, drawing on Isaiah 5 and knowledge of Jesus' parabolic speech to produce an allegorical justification of Jesus' death. "Every original trace, every subtle psychological motivation of the tenants or the owner, all poetic freshness are lacking, and the parable itself finishes oddly inasmuch as the addressees understand it and then attempt to effect on the speaker a murder which, as he has just explained to them, is both horrific and useless." Any attempt to reconstruct an authentic parable behind Mark 12:1-9 and Matthew 21:43 would be pointless: "Mark 12, down to the last detail, is a product of early Christian theology" Oulicher 1910: 2.406). Dodd sought to recover an authentic core of the parable, and did so by proposing a reconstruction that would cohere with what was known of the social conditions of Jewish Palestine in the first century. In doing so, he agreed with JUlicher's programmatic distinction between parable and allegory, and rejected the notion that Jesus' parables were "allegorical mystifications" (1961: 4), On the contrary, the parables give realistic depictions of the world and its
processes. They also provide "a singularly complete and convincing picture of
116
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
life in a small provincial town~probably a more complete picture of petit-
bourgeois and peasant life than we possess for any other province of the Roman empire except Egypt, where papyri come to our aid" (1961: 10). This approach obliged Dodd to give a realistic reading of the parable of the tenants. Accordingly, he suggested that it reflected the revolutionary ferment that had prevailed in Palestine since the time of] udas the Galilean in 6 CEo The parable depicted agrarian discontent caused by the tensions between foreign absentee landlords and nationalistic tenants. Given this line ofinterpretation, one might have expected Dodd to treat the allusion to Isaiah 5: 1-2 as secondary and to understand the tenants as the heroes of the story, attempting to throw off the yoke of Rome; but instead, Dodd interpreted the parable
through the double lens ofIsaiah 5: 1-2 and Mark 12: 12, and understood the tenants as the rulers of Israel who "refused their landlord [God] his due" and would accordingly be punished (1936: 126; 1961: 98). Dodd was perceptive enough to see not only that Mark 12:10-11 was an addition,Z but that the summarizing comment in 12:5 was probably secondary: it strikes the reader as "unreal" and seems designed to be an allegorical reference
to
the long line of Israelite prophets. 3 What troubled him more,
however, was the conclusion of the parable in v. 9b. Although Dodd argued that the statement was not specific enough to be a vaticinium ex eventu and that jesus himself probably spoke of the "disruption of the Jewish community," he thought it possible tharv. 9b was an addition. Besides, Jesus apparently did not answer his own questions in other parables. 4 Dodd's reading removed some elements of allegory-vv. 5, 9b, 10-Il-but he continued to treat the "son" as self-referential and the tenants as a figure for the chief priests. Moreover, he never addressed Jiilicher's list of improbabilities beyond excising v. 5 as secondary. This excision perhaps alleviated the motivational questions raised by the juxtaposition of the murder of the "many
2 Dodd:" All this progressive elaboration indicates that the Church ... was anxious to put [the parable's] interpretation beyond doubt" (1936: 128; 1961: 99). 3 Dodd (1936: 129; 1961: 100). The reference to "Mk. xii 4" as the addition must be a misprint. Dodd's summary of the original form of the parable (and his reference to the Gospel of Thomas in the revised edition [1961: 100 n.2l) indicates that it is v. 5 that he treats as secondary. 4 Dodd cites no parallels at this point but perhaps had in mind Luke 10:36 or Luke 16:20 (neither of which he dlscusses).
VINEYARD LEASES ON PAPYRUS
117
others" (12:5) with the owner's decision to send his beloved son (12:6); but since Dodd already read the son as the "Successor of the prophets" (1936: 131; 1961: 101), the motivation of the owner (= God) was no longer reducible to the possible motivations of a Palestinian landowner. In an effort to avoid allegorizacion, Dodd fell back into allegory. Jeremias's attempt to de-allegorize the parable went beyond Dodd's. In the first editions of Die Gleichnisse }esu (1947; 1952, ET 1955) he seems to have regarded the quotation ofIsaiah 5:2 to be secondary, since he suggested that Luke 20: 10-12, which lacks most of the Isaian elements, retained "the features of a simple story" (1955: 56).5 The role of the son, though it might appear to be an extravagant element in the story and included for christological purposes, is part of the escalating logic of the story designed to underscore the depravity of the tenants. Besides, Jeremias says, an original Palestinian audience would not have identified the son as a messianic figure, since there was no evidence that the title "Son of God" was applied to the Messiah in Palestinian Judaism. He agreed with Dodd that Mark 12: 10-11 was added to the parable to compensate for the lack of a reference to the resurrection of Jesus, and the qualification of the son as aycmTp:6c;; is probably a first allegorical trace. The tenants' violent behaviour, however, seems quite in line with what could be surmised of the social situation of first-century Palestine. Citing Dodd, Jeremias suggested that most of the Galilee-including the northwest shore of the Kinneret and the "Galilean uplands" (Upper Galilee?)-was parcelled out to foreign landlords in the form oflatifundia. 6 It is essential, claims Jeremias, to realize that the landlord is living abroad (Mark 12: 1, Kat a1t€otlll TJO€v) and thus probably a foreigner. Hence, the parable reflects the "revolutionary attitude of the Galilean peasants towards the foreign landlords" (1955: 58). The main obstacle to Jeremias's realistic interpretation, namely the tenants' expectation of "inheriting" by killing the son, was overcome by the ingenious suggestion that the tenants had in mind a law according to which the estate of an intestate proselyte could be appropriated by a claimant who was
5 Jeremias (1955: 124) later seems to imply that the Isaian allusions are also original. 6 Jeremias (1955: 59 n.47) cited the Zenon papyri as evidence of foreign ownership oflands in the Galilee (PSI VI 594 [261-246 BeE]). He took Josephus's reference to an imperial granary at Gush Halav (Life 71) to imply that the surrounding villages belonged to imperial domains.
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
already occupying it. 7 Hence, Jeremias suggested, the tenants believed that the son's appearance implied that the owner was dead, and that by killing the heir they would render the property ownerless (1955: 59). Despite the seemingly realistic reading that Jeremias supplied, his interpretation seems counterintuitive. Taking Mark 12: 12 as a reliable index to the original audience of the parable, Jeremias proposed that it had been directed against the priestly rulers. Yet the legal expedient that he suggests as the key to the tenants' actions is, to say the least, a footnote to Mishnaic law; without further elaboration, it seems doubtful that the priestly rulers would understand the point. There are indeed several problems with his reading. First, the verb (btOOTH.1EtV, while conveying absenteeism, implies nothing about the owner's ethnicity or even his present location. Second, there is nothing to indicate that the owner was a proselyte; hence, the Mishnaic ruling that Jeremias cites is of uncertain merit. Third, since Jeremias wishes to read the owner as God and the killing of the son as the "rejection of God's definite and final message" (1955: 60), it is odd that he suggests that the owner is also a foreign absentee landlord. Finally, there is nothing in the parable to suggest that the "others" are the poor; Jeremias cites Matthew 5:5, Matthew's redaction of Q's beatitudes, as his basis for this suggestion. By the time of the revised edition of Die Gleichnisselesu (1970, ET 1972), Jeremias had access to the Gospel of Thomas (65), whose version of the parable lacked both the Isaian allusions in 12: 1 and 12:9 and a parallel to Mark 12:5. This encouraged Jeremias to declare that the Isaian allusions-both the elaborate description of the establishing of the vineyard in Mark 12: 1 and the question and answer in 12:9-are secondary. Mark 12:5b, which caused Jiilicher such difficulties, was also an expansion (1972: 71). Jeremias even toyed with the possibili ty that Lu ke' s version of the story is an independen t tradition, 8 similar to that found in the Gospel of Thomas 65. But apart from these adjustments, Jeremias maintained the other details of his earlier interpretation: the owner was a foreign absentee landlord and the tenants availed themselves 7 The law of adverse possession (usucaptio): "When one lays claim to the estate of a proselyte, then if [the claimant] locked it in or fenced it in or made any breach whatsoever, this is considered valid usucaption" (m. B. Bat. 3.3; see further b. B. Bat. 53a55a; b. Gif. 39a). 8 Affirmed also by Bammel (1959: 12 n.6), Robinson (1975: 451) and Hester (1992: 32, tentatively) .
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VINEYARD LEASES ON PAPYRUS
oflaws of adverse possession (usucaptio). Curiously, although he excluded both the Isaian allusions, by virtue of which the owner comes to be identified with God, and 12:9, which speaks of the transfer of the vineyard to "others," Jeremias still maintained that the parable vindicated God's offer of the gospel to the poor. Despite his exclusion of the Isaian allusion, Jeremias assures us that the audience would connect the parable with Isaiah 5:7 on the basis of the mention of a "vineyard." Hence, he brings back what he had just excluded and makes [saiah 5:1·7 determinative for the parable's original meaning. Derrett (1970) tried to correct some of the difficulties inherent in Jeremias's reading. The story itself, suggests Derrett, is realistic and required no allusions to Isaiah. It would be perfectly natural for a capitalist to plant a vineyard, rent it out and then depart until it came into full production. Like Jeremias, he insisted that the owner was some distance from the vineyard, since he had
to
communicate by means of servants. Because a new vineyard would
normally take four years to come into full production,9 Derrett recognizes that the owner would be required to pay the wages of the tenants during those unproductive years. But then he assumes-without any real warrant-that Mark's "in due season" (1:<;>
Katp~,
12:2) means after the fourth year,
and-again without warrant-that the reason for the tenants' hostile reception of the first servant was that they had been unpaid for their capital expenditures during the entire period. Thus, "the fight was not necessarily a sign of ill.will, but of sincerity!" (1970: 299). Derrett also assumes that the sending of the second servant and the son occurred in two further successive years, hence, after the second and third harvests. At this point Derrett invokes laws of adverse possession in order to render reasonable the tenants' actions: the tenants believe that, in accordance with Baba Batra 3.1,10 three years of undisputed usufruct were sufficient basis for a
9 According tom. Peah 7.6 (interpreting Lev 19:23·25), the produce of a vineyard is forbidden as "uncircumcised" for the first three years, and in dle fourth must be redeemed at the Temple. Further e1alxJration of Leviticus 19:23-25 is found in m. 'Or. and m. B. Me~, 4.8. 10 m. B. Bat. 3.1: "The legal period for undisputed possession for houses, cisterns, ditches, caves, dovecotes, bath·houses, olive presses, irrigated fields, bondmen, and whatsoever else produces steady gain, is [obtained by occupation fori three years, from day to day. , .. R. Ishmael [b. Elisha, 120-40 eEl said, This [Le .• periodiC occupation for each of three years) refers only to a grain field, but in the case of an orchard, when one has brought in his crop ... this period [one month in the first year, twelve months in the second, one in the third] is deemed [as equivalent to] three years."
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TEXT AND ARTIfACT
claim of adverse possession. But since laws of adverse possession, both in the Mishnah and elsewhere, presuppose that such claims are valid only in the case ofundi5puted use ofland (or movable property), Derrett does not consider the sending of the first and second servants to constitute the landlord's continued assertion of property. It is difficult, however, not to see the owner's attempts to recover rent-regardless of whether the servants were sent yearly or at some shorter interval-as constituting claims to ownership. Derrett's insistence on the owner's remove from the vineyard, moreover, cuts against his case. As Baba Batra 3.2 makes clear, adverse possession is not valid if, for example, the property is in the Galilee or the Transjordan and the owner resident in Judah, or vice versa. 11 For the presumption of rules of adverse possession is that the owner knows of the occupation of his or her property and does nothing to recover its use. 12 To make matters even worse, Baba Batra 3.3 expressly excludes tenants from those eligible for making claims of adverse possession
(i1p~n), 13 for the obvious reason that not to do so would have made any tenancy agreement longer than three years a serious risk to the owner.
2. Papyrus Leases of Vineyards and Viticultural Labour In the attempts to recover a realistic scenario behind the parable, or even to decide whether a realistic story can be recovered at all, what is usually neglected is what is known about actual leasing agreements-in particular, leases of vineyards. 14 Of course, very few details of such agreements survive
11 m. B, Bat, 3.3 includes a rejected option ofR. Judah [b. IlIai, 140·65 eEl, who argued that the three year limit applied only to owners in Spain, since after occupation by another person for one year, it would take one year for the news to reach the owner, and another year for the owner to return to assert ownership. 12 Derrett cites BGU I 267 [199 eEl: "[Tlhey are established [in the landl for those living in another city, after 20 years, but for those living in the same city, after only ten years." But see Schulz (1951: 359), who points out that the law is from the time ofCaracalla. 13 m. B. Bat. 3.3: "Artisans, jointholders, tenants, and administrators-the law of usucaption does not apply to them." 14 An exception to this is Evans (1996), whose efforts are directed mainly to showing that tenants included not only peasants, but smallholders (BGU II 530, erroneously cited as BGG 174), decommissioned soldiers (BGU 1156; PColZen 54), large.scale public farmers (PLond Il 256), and other large cultivators (PCairZen 59292). Evans concludes from the clauses giving the lessor the right of execution on the lessee's property (e.g., PRyl IV 582 [42 BeE]) and heavy penalties in the case of def~ult (e.g., PI~ylIV 583 [170 BeE]) that the lessees could not be peasants or day labourers but must be "persons of means." There were,
121
VINEYARD LEASES ON PAPYRUS
from Jewish Palestine, for reasons of climate: in all but the Arava, the humidity and rainfall are too high to allow papyri or parchment to survive. But we have from Pwlemaic and Roman Egypt thousands of lease agreements, including many that deal with the particulars of vineyards. Papyri have been employed helpfully in two studies of this parable. The more substantial of the two, by Martin Hengel (1968), used selected Zenon papyri to show that the parable's basic scenario had the ring of verisimilitude. The Zenon papyri reflect a foreign (Ptolemaic) absentee landlord of estates
PSI VI 594 [261-246 BeE)). One of the estates in question was said to have 80,000 vines
near Beth Anath in the Galilee (e.g., PLond VII 1948 [257 BeE] j
and thus represents a property of approximately seventeen hectares, requiring (by Hengel's estimate) twenty-five workers or the (male) population of a small village. Hengel adduced a papyrus
(PSI VI 554 [258 BeE)) mentioning a
dispute between Melas, the manager of one of Apollonios's15 estates in Palestine, and the tenants who leased the estate in exchange for fixed taxes. The nature of the dispute is unclear owing to the fragmentary state of the papyrus, but it included the tenants' protests about taxes that Melas had forced them to pay and about quantities of grapes and figs. 16 These papyri illustrate for Hengel the likely tensions that resulted from the fact that the owner of this Galilean property was an Egyptian and that he dealt with the tenants by means of agents. The new-typically hellenistic-revenue intensive kind of management, in which agents charged with achieving delivery quotas certainly did not act with special deference, aroused the indignation of the Galilean farmers, who apparemly refused to pay the rent. (Hengel 1968: 15-16)
of course, large-scale leaseholders: one could cite PSI 393 (241 BeE), a vineyard of 60 arouras (= 16.5 ha); and PCairZen 59300 (250 BeE), a vineyard of 100 arouras (= 27.5 ha). But Evans mistakes the size of the property in PRyl IV 583 (6 arouras = 1.5 ha), which hardly indicates a wealthy tenant. Moreover, the execution and penalty clauses to which he refers are mostly formulaic and do not necessarily reflect the ability of the lessee to pay the penalty stipulated. It is clear, of course, that the leases are not with "day labourers," but neither PRyl IV 592 nor PRyllV 593 allows us to determine the social status of the lessees. On the structure of leases, see Taubenschlag (1955: 268-74); on penalty clauses, see Berger (1911: esp. 150-53). 15 Apollonios was the finance minister (O~O~1CfJt~C;) to Ptolemy II Philadelphos. 16 See Tcherikover (1937: 45-48) for a discussion of this fragmentary papyrus.
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Perhaps foreign absenteeism contributed to the tensions, but, as will be shown below, tensions could just as easily arise when the landowner was much closer to the tenants. The papyri cited by Hengel-and many others that might have been adduced-illustrate well the use of agents. In the case of the Beth Anath estate, Apollonios used Melas, the manager of the estate, a KWIlOI.H08uHtlC; (probably a royal official responsible forthe leases and keeping the corresponding contracts), and the writer of the letter, probably another agent of Apollonios. The use of agents, however, is not purely a function of Apollonios's residence in Egypt. On the contrary, it was customary for landowners to deal through agents, especially for owners who were high on the ladder of status. In other words, the conclusion that Hengel wishes to draw, that by analogy to the Zenon papyri the owner in Mark 12 is likely resident some significant distance from the vineyard, is possible, though hardly necessary. Tensions between tenants and owners and the use of agents were part and parcel of vineyard leasing. Hengel cites two further papyri to illustrate points pertaining to the avenues available for resolution of legal disputes. The first, PCairZen 59018
(258 BCE), relates the attempt of Zenon (Apollonios's OiKOVOIl0C;) to recover a debt from a certain Yeddous, probably a village chief. Zenon had sent a senior agent, Straton, to collectthe debt and had asked a local official (Oryas) and his underling (Alexandros), probably in the vicinity of the village, to assist Straton. Claiming to be ill, Alexandros sent a slave (vE<xvioKOC;) with Straton but both were expelled from the village (EK~<xA.[Eivl EK tllc; KWIlTJC;) and the slave was assaulted by Yeddous. Hengel suggests that Zenon here encountered the reluctance oflocal officials (presumably Oryas and Alexandros) to disturb the peace simply in order to comply with the requests of distant Egyptian officials (1968: 27). A second papyrus, PCairZen 59015 (259-258 BCE), 17 contains the drafts of five letters sent by Zenon to various Egyptian officials in Marisa, asking that they assist Straton in recovering three runaway slaves that Zenon had bought there. Hengel suggests that Zenon's requests illustrate the energy
17 Hengel (1968: 27 n.89) mistakenly cites it as PCairZen 50915 and suggests that PCairZen 50915 indicates that the slaves were later in Zenon's possession, so that the attempts at recovery were presumably successful. Hengel perhaps means PCairZen 59537 (259-258 BeE), which, however, is too fragmentary to permit a clear interpretation.
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VINEYARD LEASES ON PAPYRUS
required to motivate officials to comply with requests for assistance, even those coming from an official of Zenon's status (1968: 27). There is room for doubt here. As S. R. Llewelyn has pointed out, even if Alexandros (of PCairZen 59018) feigned illness to avoid Yedda us's anger, one cannot conclude that all officials acted in this manner (Llewelyn 1992: 101). He points out, moreover, that by sending Oryas a copy of the letter that Straton was bearing to Yeddous, Zenon fully expected Oryas and his underling to co-operate and to assist Straton. In other words, there is no reason to assume that Zenon anticipated resistance or reluctance from local officials. The interpretation of PCairZen 59015 that Hengel gives is also open to question. In the first place, the five letters are not a sequence of letters, attempting to resolve the matter, but letters to five different individuals who could assist Straton (or not interfere with him by imposing on him any obligations). As Llewelyn notes, the letters indicate that Zenon has a close personal relationship with some of the correspondents: he asks for Pasikles's assistance "as a friend," reminds him of an alabaster chest that he wanted to purchase, and offers to Peisistratos anything he wants from the
xwpa
(1992: 104). Nothing in the
correspondence requires us to assume that Zenon anticipated administrative resistance. A second study that uses papyri is Snodgrass's (1983) monograph on Mark 12: 1-12. Snodgrass was concerned to answer the list of objections raised by Jiilicher, Kummel and others in regard to a realistic reading of Mark 12: 1-12: 1. A man would not plant a vineyard and then leave it. 2. A vineyard would not be rented immediately after construction since the first fruits come after five years. 3. The behavior of the tenants is improbable. 4. It is psychologically improbable that a man would repeatedly send slaves when they were repeatedly and progressively mistreated. 5. It is even more improbable that a man would send his only son. 6. There is no justification for the tenants' belief that they would inherit the vineyard. 7. It is questionable whether the owner could simply kill his tenants. 8. It is unlikely that the owner would give the vineyard to others; rather, he would look after it himself. (Snodgrass 1983: 31)
124
TEXT AND ARTIFACf
Snodgrass cites POxy XIV 1631 (280 CE) to answer the first and the final objections. It confirms that "it is unlikely that a man who was rich enough to own much land would cultivate it himself' (1983; 33). In order
to
respond to
the second point Snodgrass appeals to Derrett's view that the collection of rent in Mark 12;2 came only after the fourth year and that, in the meantime, the tenants had supported themselves from other crops planted in the vineyard
(1983: 34). He cites Hengel's treatment of the Zenon papyri to illustrate rebellions among tenants and the supposed reluctance oflocal administrators to co-operate with the requests of distant landowners,18 although he refrains from insisting that the landlord of Mark 12 is a foreigner. Unfortunately, as Llewelyn has also pointed out (1992: 95), the papyrus does not co-operate fully with Snodgrass's intentions. POxy XIV 1631 concerns not a new, but a producing vineyard. It is not, strictly speaking, a vineyard lease at all, but a "lease" of the viticultural labour (alJ.1tEAouPYUCCt epya) for which the "lessees" receive wages (f.Lw8o() of 4,500 drachmae, 10 artabas of wheat and four jars of wine (11. 18-20), rather than paying a rent (<j>6po~) in kind or in money, as would be the case in vineyard leases (see below). The lease does mention the leasing of an "old vineyard" (1taAalCt af.L 1tEAoc;), now evidently used to grow dates, olives, figs, peaches, citrons and melons, for which the lessees will pay a special rent (ElC<j>6pla) in kind (ll. 21-25). Thus, while it is true that the lessees derived some income from the produce of the old vineyard, it is clear that a major portion of their yearly income-the lease is for one year-was the wages they received for the viticultural labour. POxy XIV 1631 also illustrates the issue of "absenteeism," but not in the manner that Snodgrass supposes. The lessor, Aurelius Serenus (also called Sara pion) , was a metropolitan in Oxyrhynchus and the lessees were a father and son from Oxyrhynchus and a villager from Tanais, the location of the vineyard itself. As Jane Rowlandson (1996: 270) points out, Serenus/Sarapion both owned and leased property. Besides the vineyard in Tanais, in the Middle toparchy (20 kilometres from Oxyrhynchus), he owned 5 arouras of land for wheat production near Mermertha in the Upper toparchy (22 kilometres from Oxyrhynchus) (POxy XIV 1689). But he also leased 7.5 arouras of land for
18 Snodgrass (1983: 35-37) extends Hengel's point about administrative resistance to include Zenon's supposed reluctance to "use force to regain what was legally his" (apropos of PCairZen 59015, also mis-cited as 50915).
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VINEYARD LEASES ON PAPYRUS
green vegetables (XAwpoi) in Paimis (POxy XIV 1646), situated next to Oxyrhynchus. Serenus/Sarapion presumably preferred to lease and cultivate farmland near Oxyrhynchus and to lease out his more distant grain farm in Mermertha. For the vineyard in Tanais, however, he needed specialized labour and found this in the combination of two metropolitans and a local vinedresser. Thus POxy XIV 1631 illustrates neither foreign nor necessarily wealthy landowners, but a landowner who leased the viticultural work in his vineyard to tenants, possibly out of consideration for distance, but more probably because he required specialized labourers (for we have no indication that Serenus was himself a vinedresser). Despite the extremely modest distance between Oxyrhynchus and Tanais, Serenus used agents
to
supervise the
vineyard work. The papyrus illustrates a form of "absenteeism," but hardly of the sort that Snodgrass and Hengel wish us to imagine for Mark 12. Vineyard leases represented a particular type of agricultural lease. 19 Unlike the lease of farmland on which the tenant might plant one of several possible annual crops, the lease of a vineyard involved the care of a perennial crop representing a significant capital investment. Vines normally took five years to become productive20 and required constant irrigation. They could suffer damage through neglect, and the proper operation of a vineyard regularly involved care for an adjoining reed plantation, from which supports for the vines were obtained, periodic manuring of the vines and maintenance of water installations.
19 The following vineyard leases are known from Ptolemaic times: PRyl IV 583 (Philadelphia, 170 BeE); PKiiln III 144 (Arsinoite nome, 152 BeE). From Roman and Byzantine times we have the following: BGU IV 1122 (Alexandria, 13 BeE); BGU II 591 (Fayum, 56/57 eEl; PLond II 163 (Fayum, 88 eEl; POxy IV 729 (Oxyrhynchus, 137 eEl; PFIoT III 369 (Hermopolites, 1391149 eEl; PAmh II 91 (Theadelphia [Fayum] 159 eE); POxy XIV 1692 (Oxyrhynchus, 188 eEl; PHarr I 137 (Oxyrhynchus, II eEl; CPR 1244 (Fayum, II-III eEl; PBerlLeihg [ 23 (Theadelphia, 252 eEl; POxy XLVIII 3354 (Oxyrhynchus, 257 eE); POxy XIV1631 (Oxyrhynchus, 280 eEl; PLaUT IV 166 (189-90 eEl; PSI XIII 1338 (Oxyrhynchus, 299 eEl; PVindSal8 (Hermopolites, 325 eE); PFlor 184 (Hermopolites, 366 eEl; PFlor III 315 (Hermopolites, 435 eEl; SB 4481 (Fayum, 486 eEl; PBeTlFrisk 4 (Hermopolites, 512 eE); PCairMasp I 67104 (Antaiopolites, 530 eEl; PLand III 1003 (Hermopolites, 562 eEl; PHamb I 23 (Antinoupolis, 569 eEl; PGiss I 56 (Hermopolites, VI eEl; SB 4774; 4482, 4486 (Fayum, VI-VII eEl; StudPal XX 218 (Hermopolites, VII eEl. 20 This is reflected in the fact that tax structures in the Ptolemaic period recognized that newly planted vineyards would come into full production only after the fifth and sixth years (PEdg 38 [III BCE]; Rostovtzeff 1922: 99; Westermann 1926: 43-44). PTebt I 5 (Kerkeosiris, 118 ReE) 93-97, reporting tax laws of Ptolemy II Euergetes, left vineyards untaxed for five years and allowed a reduced tax for the following three years.
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Leases could be of several types. The first type is analogous to leases of other agricultural land, in which the tenant agreed either to care for the land in exchange for a share of the crop, or to assume all of the harvest and pay a fixed rent (<j>6poC;), or some combination of the two arrangements. In many cases, vineyards were connected with fruit orchards or vegetable gardens, which could also command a rent. In one of the earliest vineyard leases extant, PRyl IV 583 (170 BCE), for example, Nichomachos leased a 6 aroura (1.5 ha) vineyard near Philadelphia, apparently for one year, for a rent of two-thirds of the crop (after deductions had been made for an agricultural tax and the hire of the wine press and treaders). Only a few of the responsibilities were joint: both the lessor and the lessee, Apollonios, were required to provide jars for the wine and both had to carry the must for themselves. Otherwise, most of the duties fell to the lessee. The lease enjoined upon Apollonios the duties of pruning and dressing the vines, weeding and watering, and required him to shift fifty rows of vines (at his own expense). All of the monthly wages (of the casual labourers) were the responsibility of Apollonios. Nichomachos was permitted to station a guard on the vineyard, presumably around harvest time, to prevent theft and fraud. Although Nichomachos presumably paid the wages associated with guard duty, Apollonios was expected to give the guard other work in the vineyard and to pay him as a monthly worker. The lease contains typical clauses imposing fines on Apollonios should he abandon the lease or fail to pay the wages of the labourers, and ends with the standard clauses requiring that the vineyard be returned to Nichomachos in good order (i.e., free of weeds, rushes and other contaminants) at the expiration of the agreement.
POxy IV 729 (Oxyrhynchus, 137 CE) presents a somewhat more complicated but perhaps more typical situation. The lessor, Sarapion, himself a lessee, leased a vineyard of uncertain size and a reed plantation to two tenants, Ammonios and Ptollas, for a period of four years. Rent was on the basis of half-shares , but the lessor was to receive an additional fifty jars of wine. The area also included a disused vineyard leased for three years starting the year after the vineyard lease and used for grain production, on which the lessees would pay a special rent of sixty drachmae and (probably) one-half of the crop. The lessor, however, seems to have been responsible for the taxes and allowed the lessee to use the farm buildings.
127
VINEYARD LEASES ON PAPYRUS
The lessees and lessor shared the expenses for manuring the vineyard and, as in PRyl IV 583, Sarapion was entitled to post his own guard on the crop (at his own expense). The lessees were evidently responsible for the harvest and the pressing, with the lessor providing sufficient jars for his share of the wine. Stiff penalties are imposed for any damages or failure to perform the necessary work, and the lessor acquired the right of execution on the lessees' property should any default occur. The lease contains a detailed list of the viticultural duties expected of Ammonios and Ptollas, and an equally detailed description of the expected state of the vineyard at the expiry of the lease. These two leases, like POxy XIV 1631 cited by Snodgrass, concern producing vineyards, and so are poor analogies to Mark 12:1-12. A better analogy is offered by BGU IV 1122 (Alexandria, 13 BCE) , in which two vinedressers, Papos and Ptolemaios, leased from Gaius the viticultural labour in a small (2 aroura) vineyard. They were responsible for planting the shoots at the proper depth, watering the plants and caring for the vineyard for a period of three years. Gaius was to supply the plants, stakes and reeds, and Papas and Ptolemaios were to receive a yearly wage of 450 drachmae, paid in installments. The lease contains standard provisions for the return of the vineyard in good order at the expiration of the lease, imposes penalties for abandoning the lease and for damaging the vines in any way, and gives Gaius the right of execution on the property of the tenants should a default occur. From a century and a half earlier comes another lease for viticultural labour. PK81n III 144 (Arsinoite nome, 152 BCE) contains the agreement between the lessor, Euarchos, and three "Judaeans" to lease the a".l7teA~Ka epya: of his vineyard. Neither the size of the vineyard nor the duration of the lease is known, but the lease states that the wage (j..L1.<Je6~) to be paid the lessees is 1,700 drachmae per aroura (11. 8, 27).21 Although the end of the papyrus is missing and much of the detail of the lease unrecoverable, the phrase "to have contracted from Euarchos
-cu
aj..L1teA~Ka
epycc 1tIxV'Ca: -cou
eupe8T]<Joj..Livou pa:xou" ("all viticultural labour of the thicket [hedge?],
21 The lease also states that an aroura is equivalent to 400 vines (I. 27). The editors (Kramer, Hiibner, Erler and Hagedorn 1976-91: 3.92) suggest that this figure is rather low; Pliny (Hist. Nat. 17.171) indicates that vine rows are normally planted five feet apart (but up to eight feet), which would yield a figure of 1,300-1,500 vines per aroura. According to Schnebel (1925: 253-54), however, intercultivationofvegetables was common, which fact might account for the reduced density of vines.
128
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
regardless of its condition") suggested to the editors that the vineyard had been neglected and hence required restoration. 22 This would account for the fact that the payments take the form of wages to the lessees rather than rent to the lessor and that there is no mention of pressing or delivery of the vintage, since, presumably, the vineyard is not yet in production. Other instances of newly planted vineyards might be cited,23 but one of particular interest is POxy IV 707 (Oxyrhynchus, 136 CE), the record of a trial which preserves part of the speech of the plaintiff, Plutarchos. Plutarchos had leased from Demetria a vineyard in Seruphis (near Oxyrhynchus), previously leased for six years to two other tenants, Philinos and Antistios, both from Oxyrhynchus. Since the vineyard was newly planted, the first lease stipulated that the first four years were to be rent-free (21: 1l'l10ev (mep <popou) but that the lessees were to pay the taxes. 24 For the final two years of the lease, rent would be paid (though the terms are not stated). The lessees would receive from Demetria 2,000 drachmae, on the condition that they also rebuild the walls of the vineyard and build a new waterwheel. Plutarchos's complaint notes that Philinos did not perform the work required, although he took the wages, did not build a wheel of the appropriate size, left the walls in disrepair and neglected the vineyard. The papyrus breaks off with the comment that his brother Antistios had to stand surety for Philinos's default. Since the papyrus breaks off at this point, it is unclear how Plutarchos's lease has been affected by Philinos's negligence, but it is possible that he found himself liable for work, in particular on the wheel and the walls, that he had not expected. The pattern established by the leases cited above is sufficiently clear at this point. For producing vineyards, the lease might provide either for wages to be paid to the lessees (as, for example, in POxy XIV 1631 and POxy XLVII
22 Kramer et al. (1976-1991: 3.91). Llewelyn (1992: 166) raises questions about this interpretation, pointing out that heurethesomenou indicates a future, not a present, condition, but suggests that it is spoken from the lessees' aspect, i.e., "the lessees acknowledge that they have undertaken all the viticultural duties of the thicket regardless of the condition in which they find it." 23 Besides PKoin III 144 (Arsinoite nome, 152 BeE) and BGU IV 1122 (Alexandria, 13 BeE), PBerlLeihg 123 (Theadelphia, 252 CE) records the application to lease a new vineyard of 2 arouras; PSI XIII 1338 (Oxyrhynchus, 299cE) concerns a new vineyard for which the lessees receive wages of l,200 drachmae per aroura and pay rent in kind on a vegetable garden. 24 Because it was a new vineyard, the taxes would be much reduced.
VINEYARD LEASES ON PAPYRUS
129
3354),25 or for the lessees to receive a portion of the crop (as in PRyl IV 583 and POxy IV 729). Whether the lessor decided to take the full crop (and thus pay wages) or agree to crop shares depended, presumably, on the ease with which each party could market the wine. In the case of newly planted vineyards, however, there was no product to be sold, apart from intercultivated vegetables and grain or fruit that was grown on other parts of the leased land. Hence, the normal pattern would be for the lessor to pay wages (flto8oi) to the lessees for their viticultural labour. It is this set of facts that makes the scenario proposed by Mark 12:1-2 incoherent, for Mark clearly speaks of a newly planted vineyard and therefore one that would not come into production for five years, and at the same time describes the landowner sending agents to the estate to collect a share of the harvest (AaPn IX1tO 1'WV Kap1tWV 1'ou IXfl1t€AWvO<;). The only way out of this dilemma is to make a gratuitous assumption about the wages that should have been paid during the first four years-either Derrett's assumption that the lessor had failed to pay wages, thus inviting the lessees' anger, or that the lessor had in fact paid wages and now appropriately expected that rent be paid for the fifth and following years. Neither solution works. In the first place, there is no reason to suppose that the phrase 1'~ Kalp~ in Mark 12: 2 means "in the fourth year." Moreover, if the owner had failed to pay wages, what one would expect is that the lessees would merely abandon the lease. After all, the lessees were liable to substantial outlays of labour and cash (to pay for reed work, manuring, casual monthly labour, etc.) for no remuneration. PSI 1414 (III BeE) records a complaint from a vinedresser to Zenon that he has not received his wages (OtjrWVlOV) for the month, and, since the vineyard has no attached vegetable garden or any other sources of income, the vinedresser is in danger of abandoning the lease. 26 Another letter, PCairZen 59377 (reign of Ptolemy II Philadelphos), complains that the lessor has not provided a loan for water as specified in the lease and
25 POxy XLVII 3354 (257 eE) is a lease ofviticulcurallabouron a 6-aroura vineyard for three years. The lease requires one worker to sleep in the vineyard (acting as a guard), and provides wages of 3,600 drachmae. The lessees received no significant share of wine, but received some grain and agreed to purchase (and market) the date crop, some of the wine, and to farm some of the grain-producing land in exchange for rent. 26 For other instances of tenants abandoning a lease, see PCairZen 59245 (252 BeE); 59329 (248 BeE); 59367 (240 BeE).
130
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
warns Zenon that his land is becoming unproductive on this account. Finally,
PCairZen 59610 (III BeE) is a letter requesting either that the lessor provide more guards for the vineyard or that he allow the lessees to abandon the lease. The crop was evidently being pilfered to the extent that the lessees feared that they would lose their share. In the case of Mark 12, had the owner failed to pay the appropriate wages, the easiest expedient would have been for the lessees to leave the farm and seek work elsewhere. The indications that we have are in fact that viticultural work, as a specialized task, was in demand. 27 The other possibility is equally unlikely, that the owner had dutifully paid wages for the first four years and was now denied his return. For had the parable presupposed this, it would have been in the rhetorical interests of the narrator to draw explicit attention to this fact, since it would only strengthen the case against the tenants. Just as in POxy IV 707, where Plutarchos emphasizes the wages that Demetria had paid Philinos, who actually defaulted on his responsibilities, the writer of Mark, had he been interested in a realistic story, would have added the payment of wages to the list of the owner's activities in Mark 12: 1. 3. Conclusion The conclusion that seems most appropriate, based on what is known of the realities of lease agreements, is that Mark's version of the parable is fundamentally incoherent, mixing a waged.cqJ.1t€AOUPY1Ktt epya with a cropshare rental agreement. This incoherence exists, o( course, precisely because of the allusions to Isaiah 5: 1-7. As many commentators have pointed out, however, Mark's version ofIsaiah is dependent on the LXX rather than the Hebrew text: the LXX expressly mentions the building of the fence or wall (cI>paYflDv TCEpl€8t)Ka, unattested in Hebrew); like Mark, the LXX uses (XflTC€AO<;; as the object of "planted" rather than P1'tJ (soreq, vines); and the LXX construes :J.j.J)
(yekev, wine press) as a vine vat (LXX:
1tpoAijv~ov; Mark: UTCoAijVlOV).
It is probably because of the intertextual reference that Mark can tolerate the incoherence, in both 12: 1-2 and 12:9, where the owner-lessor retaliates against the lessees by killing them. Such a remedy is, of course, unattested in
27 Cf. POxy XII 1590 (IV CE), where the writer asks his agent to encourage the irrigators of his vineyard (a specialized labour contract) to take over the entire viticultural work.
131
VNEYARD LEASES ON PAPYRUS
the extant papyri, although lease agreements regularly include a variety of clauses that protect the lessor. 28 Once allusions to Isaiah 5: 1-7 were introduced into the parable, it ceased to be read realistically. We need not think that the incoherences of the Markan version would have bothered the ancient reader, any more than the incoherences of Matthew 22:1-10, 11-14 bothered Matthew. But it is important to recognize that as long as the Isaian story is present intertextually within Mark 12:1-9 (10-12), the narrative resists a realistic reading; it can only be read allegorically. The version of the parable in the Gospel of Thomas (65), by contrast, lacks any allusion to Isaiah 5:1-7, and, more importantly, presupposes a coherent scenario of the lease of an existing vineyard for crop shares: "A good man owned a vineyard
[N€YN[TAq] NOYMA N€7I.OO7l.€].
He leased it to tenant farmers so
that they might work it and he might collect the produce from them." Read in the context of the leases cited above, Thomas 65 offers a straightforward scenario where tenant farmers default on their lease obligations, doing violence to the agents of the lessor sent to collect the rent. Since there is no equivalent to Mark 12:9 (the owner's killing of the tenants), Thomas's version does not raise the problem of whether such extreme action would be imaginable in the case of an actual default and violent confrontation. Thomas lacks precisely the elements that interfere with a realistic reading of the story. Although some have dealt with the lack of the Isaian allusions in Thomas 65 by asserting that Thomas removed the biblical allusions, it should be recognized that this is no more than an assertion; it is not an argument, for there are no other places in the Gospel where one could make analogous arguments. On the other hand, since the Isaian allusions in Mark have every appearance of being an insertion from one using the Septuagint, and since the insertion of these elements, while allowing the owner to be construed as God, the vineyard as Israel and the tenants as the priestly leadership of Israel, also creates a basic incoherence in the parable, the version in the Gospel of Thomas seems to have
. to ongma " I'lty. 29 as goo d or better a c131m
28 For example, clauses forbidding the abandoning of the lease and the damaging of the vineyard; praxis clauses which assign to the lessor the right of execution against the person and property of the lessee; and stipulations, in the case of crop-share arrangements, that the entire crop belongs to the lessor until the lessee has fulfilled the obligations of the lease. zg I gratefully acknowledge the assistance of Zeba Crook in bibliographical matters.
132
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
References Bammel, Ernst 1959 "Das Gleichnis von den bosen Winzern (Mk 12,1-9) und das jildische Erbrecht." Revue internationale des droits de l'antiquite 6: 11-17. Berger, Adolf B. 1911 Die Strafklauseln in den Papyrusurkunden: Ein Beitrag zum grakoagyptischen Obligationenrecht. Leipzig!Berlin: Teubner. Brooke, George J. 1995 "4Q500 1 and the Use of Scripture in the Parable of the Vineyard." Dead Sea Discoveries 2: 268-94. Carlston, Charles E. 1975 The Parables of the Triple Tradition. Philadelphia: Fortress. Chilton, Bruce 1984 A Galilean Rabbi and His Bible: Jesus' Use of the Interpreted Scripture of His Time. Wilmington: Glazier. Crossan, John Dominic 1971 "The Parable of the Wicked Husbandmen." Journal of Biblical Literature 90: 451-65. De Moor, Johannes C. 1998 "The Targumic Background of Mark 12:1-12: The Parable of the Wicked Tenants." Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic and Ruman Periods 29: 63-80. Derrett, J. Duncan M. 1970 "The Parable of the Wicked Vinedressers." In J. Duncan M. Derrett, Law in the New Testament, 286-312. London: Darton, Longman & Todd. Dodd, C. H. 1936 The Parables of the Kingdom. London: James Nisbet. The Parables of the Kingdom. Rev. ed. London: James Nisbet. 1961 Evans, Craig A. 1996 "Jesus' Parable of the Tenants in Light of Lease Agreements in Antiquity." Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha 14: 65-83. Hengel, Martin 1968 "Das Gleichnis von den hosen Weingartnern, Me 12: 1-12 im Lichte des Zenonpapyri und def rabbinischen Gleichnisse." Zeitschrift far die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 59: 1-39. Hester, James D. 1992 "Socio-Rhetorical Criticism and the Parable of the Tenants." Journal for the Study of the New Testament 45: 27-57.
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Hubaut, Michel
1976 La parabole des vignerons homicides. Paris: Gabalda. Jeremias, Joachim 1952 [1947] Die Gleichnisse}esu. Second ed. Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. 1955 The Parables of Jesus. Trans. S. H. Hooke. New York/London: Charles Scribner's Sons/SCM. Die Gleichnisse Jesu. Eighth ed. Gattingen: Vandenhoeck & 1970 Ruprecht. [1970] The Parables of Jesus. Rev. ed. Trans. S. H. Hooke. New 1972 York/London: Charles Scribner's Sons/SCM. Jiilicher, Adolf Die GleichnisredenJesu. Tubingen: Mohr. 1898-99 Die GleichnisredenJesu. Vols. 1-2. Second ed. Tiibingen: Mohr. 1910 Kramer, Barbel, R. Hubner, M. Erler and D. Hagedorn, eds. 1976-91 Kolner Papyri (P. Kaln). Vol. 7. Ofpladen: Westdeutscher Verlag. Kiimmel, Werner Georg 1950 "Das Gleichnis von den basen Weingartner (Mark 12,1-9)." In Oscar Cullmann and Philippe H. Menoud (eds.), Aux sources de Ia tradition chretienne: Melanges offem a M. Maurice Goguel al'occasion de son soixante-dixieme anniversaire, I ZO-31. Neuchatel!Paris: De1achaux/ Niestle. Llewelyn, S. R. 1992 New Documents Illustrating Early Christianity, Vol. 6: In.~criptions and Papyri First Published in 1980-81. North Ryde, NSW: Macquade University Ancient History Documentary Research Centre. Robinson, John A. T. 1975 "The Parable of the Wicked Husbandmen: A Test of Synoptic Relationships." New Testament Studies ZI: 443-61. Rostovtzeff, Mikhail I. 1922 A Large Estate in Egypt in the Third Century B.C.: A Study in Economic History. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Rowlandson, Jane
1996
Landowners and Tenants in Roman Egypt: The Social Relations of Agriculture in the Oxyrhynchite Nome. Oxford/New York: Clarendon.
Schnebel, Michael
1925
Die Landwirtschaft im hellenistischen Agypten, Teil 1: Der Betrieb des Landwirtschaft. Miinchen: Beck.
Schulz, Fritz
1951
Classical Roman Law. Oxford: Clarendon.
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Simon, Ulrich E. 1967 "The Poor Man's Ewe Lamb: An Example of a Juridical Parable." Biblica 48: 207-42. Snodgrass, Klyne R. 1983 The Parable of the Wicked Tenants: An Inquiry into Parable Interpretation. Tiibingen: Mohr. T aubenschlag, Raphael 1955 [1944-48) The Law of Greco-Romo.n Egypt in the Light of the Papyri: 332 B.C.-620 AD. Second ed. Warsaw: Pantsowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe. T cherikover, Victor 1937 "Palestine Under the Ptolemies." Mizraim 4-5: 9-90. Weren, Wim J. C. 1998 "The Use of Is a 5,1-7 in the Parable of the Tenants (Mark 12,1-12; Matthew 21,33-46)." Biblica 79: 11-26. Westermann, William L. 1926 "Orchard and Vineyard Taxes in the Zenon Papyri." Journal of Egyptian Archaeology 12: 38-51. Yee, Gale A. "The Form-Critical Study oflsaiah 5:1-7 as a Song and a Juridical 1981 Parable." Catholic Biblical Quarterly 43: 30-40.
9
THE PARABLE OF THE TENANTS AND THE CLASS CONSCIOUSNESS OF THE PEASANTRY WILLIAM
E. ARNAL
One of Peter Richardson's most prominent contributions to the study of early Christianity, as both a scholar and a teacher, has been his methodological insistence on the critical importance of social and historical context for our understanding of early Christianity (see most recently Richardson 1997: 296307). Richardson has, moreover, provided outstanding examples of just how a seemingly trivial or obscure detail ofhistorical context can provide the solution to an interpretive crux (1992: 507-23). What follows is an effort to address just such a crux. The issue in question is the reference for, or point of, the parable of the tenants, preserved in Mark 12: 1-9 (and Synoptic parallels) and in the
Gospel of Thomas 65. Since Adolf Julicher's definitive work on the parables (1910), the manifestly allegorical version of this story as it appears in the Gospel of Mark has been seen as secondary; indeed, jUlicher himself regarded the parable as a whole to be a later Christian invention, its intrinsically allegorical character precluding its derivation from Jesus himself. Others, however, have seen the way clear to reconstructing an "original," non-allegorical, version of the parable, hence pushing the story-albeit with a rather different import than it has in Mark-back to Jesus' teaching. Such a reconstruction, of course, preCisely because it does not admit of the Markan self-reference to Jesus, raises very sharply the question of what the parable's "original" point might then have been. In recent decades, the parables in general have tended to be interpreted in experiential terms. Their single basis for comparison, according to the formula of jUlicher, is thus held to revolve around the shock or surprise that results from the subversion of narrative expectations. Allegory is avoided by making the parable itself-the peculiar character of its narrative and the
136
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
experience of hearing it-its own point (cf. Mack 1989: 149). Among the sharpest expressions of this thesis are those of John Dominic Crossan and Bernard Brandon Scott (but see the telling criticisms of Mack 1988: 153-60; 1989: 149-51, 154-56, 160; Stern 1989: 42, 49 and 74 nn.2-3). Scott, for instance, provides us with a descriptive definition of the parable form, as follows: The parable as employed by Jesus is an open genre. It creates discomfort for the hearer, exposes the hearer to the new, to a kingdom not yet experienced. The parable does not seek closure, regardless of how often during its transmission various interpreters have sought closure. For precisely this reason the parabolic narrative is always primary and can never be replaced by its supposed meaning. The parable is "laid beside," is "like," and therefore its meaning is found in its being laid beside. (Scott 1989: 419; d. also Funk 1966: esp. 136·40) Crossan, likewise, by describing Jesus' parables in terms of their irreducible, sui generis, poetic and metaphorical grounding in experience, states, rather poetically himself, that the experience and the expression have a profound intrinsic unity in the depths of the event itself. The fact that Jesus' experience is articulated in metaphorical parables, and not in some other linguistic types, means that these expressions are part of that experience itself. This is a most delicate area, for the religious and poetic imagination and creativity have their own mysterious alchemy of generation and transformation. (1973: 22; d. 13, 18; see the helpful exposition of Crossan's views in Mack 1988: 144·45) According to such a view of the parables, their primary effect is not denotatively communicative, and hence is ultimately untranslatable. The parables do not so much mean as act. Moreover, in large measure they act by baffling their hearers as to what they mean! This effect may be accomplished either by leaving the parables "unfinished" and open-ended, or by reversing the narrative expectations of their (putative) hearers. Thus a parable will generate a situation in which the ending arrives before our curiosity as to "what happened?" is satiated, as might be the case with the prodigal son (so, for example, Crossan 1973: 74); or it will lead us to expect a certain type of resolution, and then provide us with one diametrically opposed to that expectation, such as is the case with the parable of the dishonest steward (so,
CLASS CONSCIOUSNESS OF THE PEASANTRY
137
for example, Kloppenborg 1989: 477}. Typical of this approach to the parables as meaning by failing to mean is the definition of parable given in the glossary of the Jesus Seminar's Five Gospels: UA parable is a brief narrative or picture. It is also a metaphor or simile drawn from nature or the common Hfe, arresting
the hearer by its vividness or strangeness, and leaving the mind insufficient doubt about its precise application to tease it into active thought" (Funk and Hoover 1993: 546, emphasis added). Given such an interpretive framework, the parable of the tenants, if stripped of allegorical elements, might function in essentially the same way that the parable of the good Samaritan (Luke 10:30-35) is supposed to have operated. The point would be the narrativt! surprise occasioned by rhe story's unexpected resolution. Just as the good Samaritan's original audience is presumed to expect that the Samaritan will by no means help the injured Jew (see Kloppenborg 1989: 494} , so also the tenants' original hearers are imagined to be somewhat put out by the dangling irresolution of the story's ending, or perhaps to be shocked by the unexpected victory of the "bad guys." The narrative surprise thus works to challenge the hearers' working and unstated assumptions, usually assumptions that pertain either to morality or to social boundaries. As Kloppenborg says with respect to the parable of the unjust steward (Luke 16: 1-8): U[TJhis parable evokes and then surprises not only the immediate narrative expectations of the listener, but more importantly, it engages and then challenges, by inversion or burlesque, elements of the auditor's symbolic universe" (Kloppenborg 1989: 494, emphasis in original). The surprises in question hinge precisely upon the particular tacit identifications that the original hearers are imagined to make. The narrative surprise in the good Samaritan, for instance, relies upon the original hearers viewing themselves as, pre-eminently, Jews, and particularly as Jews who hate Samaritans (on which see the critical comments of Mack 1988: 148). Likewise, the "parabolic effect" of the tenants, as it would be typically understood, can only be a function of the assignment of moral blame to the tenant farmers, or at least an implicit sympathy with the owner of the vineyard. This basic understanding of the parables' original function, however, may be less a function of genuine insight into the social and literary features of the parables in their original historical context(s) than it is of contemporary hermeneutical expectations. The theological biases implicit in such a
138
TEXT AND ARTIFACf
perception of the parables, for instance, have been described scathingly by David Stern: [Tlhe term allegory has become a kind of trope for interpretation; in this scholarship, to say that the parable is not allegorical means in effect that the parable is beyond interpretation-on the other side of purely intellectual or rational understanding. The parables of Jesus are endowed with the full presence of an originary voice, with the plenitude of a revelation that not only need not be interpreted, but instead itself"interprets" its audience and transfigures its hearers. That is, in short, the parable becomes the Logos-a timeless, hermeneutically inexhaustible and rhetorically irresistible entity. (1989: 49) Stern is correct. In addition to the suspiciously convenient way this sort of reading preserves the uniqueness ofjesus and his message, there is something anachronistic and tendentious about the assumptions being made here about, precisely, the symbolic universe of the original audiences. The modern scholar's
own typical social sympathies and rather privileged moral presuppositions are taken to be definitive of the narrative expectations of the parables' original hearers, such that a presumably rural, peasant audience implausibly is imagined to have sympathized with landlords rather than tenants, lenders rather than debtors, and masters rather than slaves. It is this supposed identification that sets the stage for the parables' subsequent "inversionary" conclusions. Indeed, it is difficult to avoid the rather amusing suspicion that the parables' putative frustration of meaning only applies to modern New Testament scholars: perhaps the whole edifice of modern parable interpretation is an erudite way of rationalizing the fact that we just don't "get" the point of these stories. If these suspicions are correct, though, how are we to understand a story like the parable of the tenants? Can one access its "original" non-allegorical version? And if so, what on earth was its point? It is to this problem that I now turn, holding in reserve a contextual datum which, I think, supports not only a novel understanding of this parable, but also a straightforward and indeed simple one.
1. A Non.Allegorical Version of the Parable of the Tenants The pre-history and literary development of the parable of the tenants provide a fascinating example not only of an unequivocally class- and power-conscious view of social life, but also of how such a parable could come to be
CLASS CONSCIOUSNESS OF THE PEASANTRY
139
domesticated, how even very ancient interpreters tended to anticipate modern scholarship by reversing the original identity of the story's protagonists. The Markan version reads as follows: lAnd he began to speak to them in parables. A man planted a vineyard, and put a fence around it and dug out a winepress vat and built a tower, and he leased it out to farmers, and he went away on a journey. 2And he sent a slave to the farmers at the proper time, in order that he might collect from the farmers some of the fruit of the vineyard. JAnd seizing him, they beat him and sent him away empty. 4And again he sent another slave to them; and that one they struck on the head and degraded. i And he sent another; and that one they killed, and many others, who they either beat, or killed. 6S till he had one, a beloved son; finally, he sent him to them, saying. "they will respect my son." 78ut those farmers said to themselves, "this one is the heir; come, let us kill him, and we will be the heirs." 8And seizing him, they killed him, and cast him out of the vineyard. 9What will the master of the vineyard do? He will come and destroy the farmers, and give the vineyard to others. This version of the parable (as well as the dependent Matthean and Lukan versions) casts the owner of the vineyard-here, allegorically denotative of God-as the story's protagonist. Several internal features of the parable reinforce this alignment. First, the owner's initial activity is stressed in Mark: the man not only owns the vineyard, but has actually planted it himself (all1tEA.WVa av8pu)1toC; i¢urEuaEv). Mark goes into considerable detail describing the man's various labours in preparing the vineyard (12: 1; this set of details alludes to Isa5:1-7-see Crossan 1973: 90; Dodd 1961: 97-98; Mack 1988: 168 n.24; Taylor 1963: 473 n.1). Second, the description offered of the owner's efforts to collect his rent is phrased in a relatively sympathetic, or at least innocuous, way. The owner's motivation is nowhere described as the collection of rent-in Mark he has simply gone on a journey (a1tEOllIlTJ(JEV), and hence is perforce absent. Mark, moreover, uses a clearly partitive expression
(a1to
LWV Kap1tWV; see Bauer 1979: 86) to denote the actual
collection of the rent. 1The third way in which Mark (re)defines the landowner
While Thomas is probably also using a partitive expression for this activity (t N;l.q MTTKAPTTOC), it by 110 means presents the collection of rent as incidental to the owner's purpose. See further below.
140
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
as the story's hero and invites our sympathy for him is by describing his feelings for his murdered son: the son is beloved {uiov cX)'ClTIlltOv}. Fourth, finally, and most significantly, Mark has the story culminate in the landlord's revenge: we are thus left with a narrative that revolves around the feelings and actions-and, indeed, victory-of the landlord, when faced with a conflictual situation. The landlord is the story's central actor. All of these features, of course, are part of Mark's nearly explicit allegorization of this story as a coded account of Jesus' own death (cf. 12: 12: "for they knew he spoke the parahle against them"). But this observation just reinforces the point: the allegorization requires the landlord and his son to be the central and sympathetic characters of the story, and Mark makes the changes he does in order to facilitate such a reading (other features, such as the detail that "they cast [the son] out of the vineyard," also facilitate this allegorization [12:8; Fallon and Cameron 1988: 4222; but see the comments of Crossan 1973: 89], but are not especially relevant to the point being made here). That these elements are Markan and/or pre-Markan changes, and not features of the original form of the story, becomes obvious when we look at the version that appears in the Gospel of Thomas 65 (so also Crossan 1973: 91-92), which reads as follows: He said: A [... J man owned a vineyard and gave it out to some farmers in order that they might work it and he might take its fruit from them. He sent his slave so that the farmers would give him the fruit of the vineyard. They seized his servant and beat him, a little more and they would have killed him. The slave went and told his master. His master said, "perhaps he did not know them."z He sent another slave, and the farmers beat the other one. Then the master sent his son, and said, "perhaps they will be ashamed before [i.e., respect] my son." Since those farmers knew that he was the heir to the vineyard, they seized him and killed him. Whoever has ears should hear.
This version is wholly lacking in the details that make the story so susceptible to allegorization in Mark: the description of the owner's labour in constructing the vineyard; the innocuous presentation of the owner's motivations (indeed, the version in Thomas stresses the owner's intent to exploit his tenants-he lets 2 This is usually interpreted as a scribal error, and emended to read "perhaps they did not know him."
141
CLASS CONSCIOUSNESS OF THE PEASANTRY
out the vineyard "so that they might work it, and he might collect its rent" [egINA eYNAp ZWB epoq NqXI MTTeqKApTToc NTOOTOY]);
the multiple
servants; the description of the son as "beloved"; the detail that the body was thrown out of the vineyard; and even the question as to the reaction or retaliation of the vineyard's owner. Instead, it tells a simple and realistic story against an ancient Galilean rural setting, one that bears the standard structural hallmarks offolkloric composition (Crossan 1973: 93-94) . Especially the failure of the version in Thomas to conclude the parable with the question about the master's subsequent action shows that ThoTlUls is uninterested in allegorizing the story (B. B. Scott 1989: 248), and probably preserves a more original version of the parable (e.g., Crossan 1973: 95-96; Funk and Hoover 1993: 511; Patterson 1990: 102; Patterson and Robinson 1998: 44, 72-73, 106-107). Indeed, as Stephen Patterson has pointed out, C. H. Dodd provided a conjectural reconstruction of the original form of the story that has turned out to match the version in ThoTlUlS "almost to the word" (Patterson 1990: 102; cf. Patterson and Robinson 1998: 72-73; and Dodd 1961: 97; the only significant difference is that Dodd does believe that the question at the end of the Synoptic version is original). There are two problematic features of the version in Thomas, however, which might suggest an incipient allegorization, or at least a preponderant sympathy with the owner of the vineyard. First, most transcriptions and translations of ThoTlUlS have saying 65 begin by describing the owner of the vineyard as "a good man"
(OYPWM€ NXPH[CT10C; so Crossan
1973: 92; Davies
1983: 166; Lambdin 1988: 134; Menard 1975: 68, 166; B. B. Scott 1989: 244; Valantasis 1997: 143). Such a designation would clearly align the sympathies of the hearers even before the narrative played itself out. It would also be unusual, both in terms of the typical form of the parables attributed to Jesus, and in terms of the style of the parables in ThOTlUlS. But, as it turns out, this reading is far from certain. The manuscript here has a hole in the middle of the word normally rendered as "good," which could in fact just as easily be filled in to read "a creditor" (see Meyer1990: 145, 154; Patterson 1990: 102): OypWM€ NXPH[CTH]C
rather than
oypWMe NXPH[CTO]C.
There is a great deal to commend the less-usual reading of "creditor" here (see now Patterson and Robinson 1998: 23). The story as a whole, in Thomas, docs not focus on the action of the landowner, but rather more closely resembles
142
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
the parables of decisive action and wise selection elsewhere in the text. As with sayings 8, 35, 76, 107, 109 and especially 98, the point here seems to be, basically,
carpe diem. The characterization of the landowner as "good" would focus our attention on him when in fact he does not seem to be the key player in the story. In fact, it is uncharacteristic of the parable tradition in general to offer explicit qualifications of the protagonists' moral qualities: these qualities more typically emerge in the course of the narrative. 3 Thomas does of course offer initial descriptions of its parables' protagonists, and has clearly done so here, lacuna or no lacuna. But those qualifications are never moral--either they refer, in one set type of parable, to the wisdom of the protagonist,4 or otherwise they tend to refer to the physical, social or economic characteristics of the people in question (see 34: oyaXr...e; 35: nXWwre; 60: 4 YC4M4r€ITHc-and especially 63, redundantly: OypWM€ Mnr...OYCIOC €YNT4(j MM4 Y N~42 NXPHM4; 76: 4 ypWM€ N€'9WWT; and 98: 0YrWM€ MM€rlCT4NOC\ Given TharrUlS's distinct tendency (as in sayings 63, 76 and 98) to describe the professions or social standing of its characters, as well as its general failure to offer explicit qualifications of their moral features, it seems only reasonable to prefer the reading "XrHCTHC" to the more usual reconstruction "XPHCTOC" in saying 65. 6 Indeed, elsewhere in the
3 See, for instance, the parable of the unmerciful servant (Matt 18:23-34),in which the king is not qualified as "good" or "merciful," nor his servant qualified as "wicked" or "unmerciful," except in the king's words at the conclusion of the story. Even in Mark, the efforts to engage our sympathy with the landlord take place within the narrative, rather than as a gloss on it. In Thomas see sayings 9, 47, 64,96,97, 107, 109. 4 As in sayings 8, AYOYW~€ rrMiii~HT, and 76, TT€cgWT €TMMAY 0YCAB€ TI€. In both of these instances the qualifications are clearly secondary additions on the part of the Thomas tradition. See Arnal (1995: 477 and n.14); Menard (1975: 166). 5 This latter presents an interesting translation problem. The text is often translated as though the qualification in question, M€rlCTANOC, is a physical attribute, rather than a socio-economic one: "a strong man" or, more ambiguously, someone "powerful" (so Lambdin 1988: 136; Meyer 1990: 151; Valantasis 1997: 179; cf. B. B. Scott 1989: 34). Given that Coptic has a perfectly good word for" (physically) strong" (XUXVr€), and indeed that this word is used elsewhere in Thomas 35, the use here of the Greek loan-word M€I'ICTANOC, which normally is used to mean those who are of very high social standing (see Bauer 1979: 498), ought at least to give us pausl:. In fact, Thomas uses the teml elsewhere in juxtaposition with kings (78: N€TNrrWoy MN N€TMM€rlCTANOC), so it is clear that Thomas intends the usual socia-political connotations. See Arnal (1995: 491 n. 77). 6 The conclusion of course need not require this characterization to have been original to the story. Indeed, the tendency of the parable tradition 7Wt to offer such qualifications, and the tendency within Thomas to supply them, suggest that this characterization may have been a secondary addition on the part of an early Thomasine redactor or within the
143
CLASS CONSCIOUSNESS OF THE PEASANTRY
text-Thomas 98-the same kind of apparent "inversion" is offered, i.e., a story in which the "hero" perpetrates an act of extreme violence against someone of higher social standing, without Thomas in any way qualifying the act as evil or its victim as innocent. Saying 65 appears in a cluster with two other parables which seem to have the common theme of the critique of wealth (sayings 63-64); both of them also include precise economic specifications, namely
MTTAOYCIOC
in 63, with its
additional and redundant €YNT~q MM~Y N~~2 NXrHM~, and
Z€N€r-mOrOc in
64 (and also the excuse ~€ITOOY
XrHCTHC
NOY KWMH!).
Saying 65's
might
even form an indusio with XrHM~ in 63. It is thus increasingly difficult to accept the standard reconstruction of this lacuna. An interesting comment by Bernard Brandon Scott (1989: 245) inadvertently shows the interpretive strain caused by such a reading: It seems more probable that the man is "good" in order co block the reader's automatic identification of him as evil, especially given the conclusion of the preceding logion: "Businessmen and merchants will not enter the Places of My Father" (Gas. Thorn. 64). The marker "good" alerts the reader to the character's true value. Moreover, since the man is not the vineyard's planter, as in the Synoptics, but its owner, a businessman who collects the profits, such a marker is doubly important. Rather than engage in this kind of egregiously forced interpretation, we should read Thomas here not to be uncharacteristically specifying in advance where our sympathies must lie, but rather as-characteristically-simply identifying the social position of one of the story's main figures: he is a creditor, a wealthy man, an absentee landlord, as the story itself makes perfectly clear. The second potential indication of a problematic incipient allegorization (and ensuing sympathy with the landlord) in this saying is the fact that the parable is immediately followed by the very same scriptural (mis) quotation that in Mark serves to clarify the allegory's meaning: "Show me the stone that the builders rejected: that is the cornerstone" (Thomas 66; cf. Mark 12: 10; Ps 118:22). That Thomas immediately follows the parable with this saying is
tradition inherited by him. The explicit qualification is in any case redundant, as with saying 63-th\~ narrative detail that the man expected others to work the vineyard while he enjoyed its produce is by it:,df an indication that he is a XrHCTHC. The point here is simply that Thomas lacks the chmacterization of the landowner as "good," and hence his stripped.down version of the parable presents us with an alternative set of protagonists.
144
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
sometimes taken as an indication that the tradition behind Thomas has begun to pursue the same interpretive line as does Mark (Crossan 1973: 93; Funk and Hoover 1993: 511; B. B. Scott 1989: 244, 248). The common juxtaposition of the parable with this biblical quotation/allusion certainly cannot be a coincidence: "[Ilt is rather too much to presume that the quotation from Ps. 118 just happened to be in exactly the same place in both Mark and the Gospel of Thomas" (Crossan 1973: 93). What, however, this juxtaposition actually means, either for the parable in the context of Thomas or for the originality of the parable in the form in which Thomas preserves it, is an extraordinarily complicated question, involving, inter alia, the thorny issue of Thomas's literary relationship to the canonical gospels (on which see, generally, Fallon and Cameron 1988: 4213-24 and, most comprehensively, Patterson 1993: 9-110). If Thomas is in fact a compendium of excerpts from the Synoptic gospels, the juxtaposition of sayings 65 and 66 is an obvious function of that literary dependence. Conversely, if
Thomas and the Synoptics are literarily independent, we may seek recourse in the oral tradition to explain this shared juxtaposition, as does Crossan (1973: 93, emphasis in original): "It is much more likely that the earliest stage of the allegorization process involved this external juxtaposition of an allusion to the triumph of Jesus to the murder story.... In other words, the conjunction of [65] and [66] at the earliest stage of the allegorization process was already available to the Gospel of Thomas or its source." Or we may explain the juxtaposition in terms of a later scribal emendation of the original ordering of the document-a phenomenon we know to have taken place (by virtue of the
n.
23-30, which in the Coptic text are the widely separated sayings 30 and 77b; sec Fallon and Cameron 1988: 420.3; order of the POxy 1 fragments,
Patterson and Robinson 1998: 35)-in this case, a scribal assimilation under the influence of the Synoptic version of the story (so perhaps Patterson and Robinson 1998: 44, 67 n.35). And finally, if, as Stcvan Davies has boldly and convincingly proposed in a recent article, the Gospel of Mark actually used
Thomas as a literary source (Davies 1996), Thomas's juxtaposition of these two sayings is, as is the case with most of Thomas's ordering of sayings, purely arbitrary: the fact that Mark has made some significance of their arrangement is simply further evidence that Thomas was a source for Mark, and not the other way around. As Davies puts it:
145
CLASS CONSCIOUSNESS OF THE PEASANTRY
There is no reason whatsoever to believe that the Wicked Tenants parable and the Psalm 118 proverb were connected in oral tradition prior to their appearing in Thomas. As they stand in Thomas they have nothing to do with each other, and they are clearly separated into two distinct unrelated units. Thomas generally juxtaposes sayings randomly and there is no more reason to think that sayings 65 and 66 were meaningfully connected prior to Thomas having written them down in that order than that Thomas' sayings 66, 67, 68 were meaningfully connected; those three also having nothing to do with each other. (1996: 328) Regardless of the specific solution one adopts
to
the problem of Thomas's
literary sources, it is clear that the author of Thomas himself does not regard these two sayings to constitute a unit. He has provided clear signs of distinction between them, by offering both a formal conclusion to saying 65, "whoever has ears should hear," and a formal introduction to saying 66, "Jesus said" (see Crossan 1973: 93; Patterson and Robinson 1998: 44; B. B. Scott 1989: 244).7 At the very least this should serve as an indication to us that in the form in which Thomas received this material-and, indeed, in the form in which it was preserved-the parable lacked intrinsic allegorization. Removing the two features just discussed, that is, an explicit positive characterization of the owner of the vineyard and a strong association of the Psalm 118:22 allusion/quotation with the parable, we may draw two conclusions. First, Thomas preserves a version of this parable that is more original than that of Mark (see Davies 1983: 5; Montefiore in Turner and Montefiore 1962: 62; Quispell969: 269). And second, this more primitive version is, as Dodd had hypothesized, lacking in allegorical features, or at least allegorical features that make the parable refer to Jesus and his fate (see Dodd 1961: 96-97).
7 If anything, on formal grounds Thomas seems to assume more of a linkage between sayings 64 and 65 than between 65 and 66. The introductory element for saying 65 is merely "he said" (rre.xAq .xe) rather than Thomas's more usual "Jesus said" (rre.xe iC .xe). Thomas typically uses this rather less definite form within individual sayings, especially when Jesus is responding to an interlocutor. It also occurs at the transitions from the incipit to saying 1, from saying 59 to 60, and from 73 to 74, each pairing of which shows a certain amount of thematic consistency or continuity.
146
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
2. The "Original" Meaning of the Parable If the version of this parable in
Thomas is more original, what conclusions
might be drawn about its meaning prior to its allegorization in Mark? What, that is, could a non-allegorical version of this parable possibly mean, whether on its own or (perhaps) in the context of the cluster of other wealth-critical stories (63 and 64) in which it appears in Thomas? Interestingly, the suggestions that have been offered about this "original" meaning tend still to focus on the moral approbation implied by the allegorical reading of the story. Dodd, for instance, continuing to see the question in Mark 12:9 as original to the parable, thus expands on its significance: Well, everybody knew what was the end of such an affair, whether or not Jesus answered His own question (contrary to His custom), as Mark avers. The question, however, really means, "What did these men deserve?" The answer expected is that they deserve the worst, for their crime was such as every decent man must abhor. (Dodd 1961: 97) Dodd of course gives no indication, apart from his own moral sensibilities, about what in the story itself might generate such a conclusion. Valantasis likewise interprets the parable in terms of moral conclusions external to its actual narrative: The message discourages people from investing their energy and human re~ources in commercial enterprises, on the one hand, and shows the greed and violence of those who desire wealth and power on the other. Neither set of people wins, both lose: the farmer loses the rent, has two badly abused servants, and loses his son; the tenants become killers. The way of commerce satisfied neither party. (1997: 144) Valantasis's explanation of the parable at least has the virtue of cohering with
Thomas's general redactional tendencies, as well as making sense of the linkage of this story with the two foregoing sayings.s But it is in fact not at all clear that
8 Valantasis (1997: 144-45) suggests another possible reading forthis pericope, but here atthe level of later scribal interpretation. He notes that the scribe of our Coptic manuscript of Thomas has placed a superlinear stroke over (part ot) the word for servant: ZMZX7\., perhaps to demarcate the word "servant" as a nomina sacra. Thus at some point in the scribal transmission ofTlwmas-perhaps as late as the transcription of the fourth-century version we possess-the servants in this story have come to be understood as divine.
CLASS CONSCIOUSNESS OF THE PEASANTRY
147
Thomas in any way presents the tenants as "losing." In fact, such an interpretation is inconsistent with Valantasis's own interpretation of other, similar, Thomas parables, most notably the parable of the assassin (98). In this latter instance, Valantasis seems to recognize that the story's protagonist is the assassin himself, and in fact even goes so far as to draw explicit attention to the story's lack of moral content: The bare d~scription, lacking any sort of comment that might provide insight into the rationale for such a plan and its implementation, defies any exploration of the underlying moral issues. Murder and its execution seem plausible activities to be practised and carried out, so that, lacking all moral formulations, the point of the story seems to suggest that one practice beforehand and test one's ability before attempting to murder a powerful person. (1997: 179) In the assassin, that is, the focus is on decisive action, rather than any concern about (or moral approbation of) the goals of that action; if we are being asked to identify with anyone, and hence with their goals in the context of the narrative, it is precisely the assassin, and certainly not the "magnate." Since these two parables are so similar, and since there are no formal indices that might suggest such radically different interpretations, it is unclear to me what would lead Valantasis to his inconsistent conclusions about saying 65, apart from either the lingering influence of the Markan version of the story or a tacit sympathy with absentee landlords rather than murderous tenants. Bernard Brandon Scott's comments on the parable betray even more frustration with it, and bring us around to a "parabolic" reading that relies on the failure of interpretation: There arc two possible references for the owner, God and Israel, and likewise two for the tenants, Rome and Israel. The parable's narrative frustrates any combination of identification.... All these elaborations of the potential and implied metaphorical structure involve unacceptable conclusions. There is no way to work it out, to produce a convincing configuration of the story's fragments. The parable frustrates not only allegory but also any effort to make sense of it! ... The parable's frustrated closure shifts the focus from the kingdom's predictable apocalyptic victory, to the kingdom as an object of tragedy. (1989: 252-53)
148
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Scott is forced to rely on his own sense of just what might be "unacceptable," but the real problem here-and the issue that may lead us to a more appropriate interpretation of this story-is whether Scott or anyone else can be so certain that reference is intended here at all. The frustration of sense and closure described here by Scott depends entirely on the options he allows as "possible" for the signification of the owner and the tenants in the story. In at least this limited respect, Burton Mack would concur: just as seeds are such common metaphors for paideia that it becomes almost impossible to imagine an audience that would not thus interpret them, so also the parable of the tenants is literally packed with invitations to think of Israel's epic history from a Christian point of view. Images and narrative schemes that come immediately to mind include the vineyard as a traditional metaphor for Israel (even if the literary allusion to Isaiah in Mark 12: 1 is deleted), the sending of the prophets, the rejection and killing of the prophets, and perhaps Wisdom's envoys (Wis 7:27). (1988: 169 n.24) Mack's point is assuredly correct when it comes to the literary transmission of this story: like Scott, we must conclude that the mere mention of a vineyard within the literary tradition so unequivocally signals Israel that the story must in some way be a reflection on national identity. But the question is immediately raised as to whether this literary context is the one in which we should imagine the original reception of the parables. If the parables were indeed originally transmitted orally, and in a rural, and indeed peasant, social context, the standard rderentiality of the high culture, the literary record, the "Great Tradition," should probably not be the first place to which we look for the kind of context that would aid interpretation. Indeed, given that the vast majority of the tradents of this Great Tradition were themselves urbanites (and if they wished to partake of the produce of vineyards, would have done so precisely as the beneficiaries of absentee landlords' extraction of surplus product such as is described in this very story) who did not usually experience "vineyards" and "fields" and the like as the concrete realities of their lives, but rather as abstract sources of value, 9 the fact
9 Marx (1990: 164-65, 172-73) interestingly makes precisely this association between the generation of abstract value via alienation of the products of human labour and a general tendency toward abstraction. His chief example is religion.
CLASS CONSCIOUSNESS OF THE PEASANTRY
149
of the vineyard's metaphoricity seems itself to be a direct function of the social class of the tradents of this image, and their typical experience of the world as members of this class. To put it differently: for those elites who "own" (or at least lay claim to ownership of) Israel-as something of a social abstraction conveying valuethere can hardly be any more appropriate image of such ownership than that of land (antiquity's chief source of value) abstractly "possessed"; hence this image comes to be embedded within the literary tradition, and indeed is, as Mack argues, unlikely to have much significance apart from this stock referentiality-hence Mark's adaptation (and reversal!) of the image's import in his own highly literary composition. But what of someone who might have wanted to represent a vineyard? How might such a person have done so? One can only presume that, for those whose reality consisted, inter alia, of vineyards, concretely experienced, for those whose perennial inability (and lack of inclination?) to claim ownership of "Israel" was complemented by a lived reality in which the land, rents, agents of collection and owners were prominent features of daily life, a vineyard was actually a vineyard. Our inclination to read such figures as referential stems not only from understanding such stories through the lens of the rather more elite (or at least urban) literary tradition that has preserved them (and hence from taking for granted the tendency of ancient elites to read land possession as an identity metaphor), but also from the current-and anachronistic-tendency of scholarship to reify ancient religion (on which see the incisive comments of Horsley 1994: 1128-30), and insist on a "translation" of those elements of ancient "religious" expressions that do not conform to our modern and quite constricted notion of what "religion" is. Once we have asked the question why any such translation is necessary in the case of the "original" form of the parable of the tenants-and answered that question by asserting that in fact no such translation is necessary, or intended, at all-Scott's overly sophisticated conclusions fall apart. We are not left with untenable combinations of reference to God, Romans and Israel, but rather with a straightforward and transparent set of "references": the vineyard "refers" to vineyards, the tenants to tenants, and the absentee landlord to absentee landlords. The parable is about what it appears to be about: the social relations-specifically, the power relations-between tenants and landowners,
150
TEXT AND ARTIFACf
between, in fact, classes. Efforts to make this story "about" something else encounter paradox and interpretative frustration precisely because no such referents were ever in mind when the story was originally composed. 3. Some Conclusions What, then, would be the point of telling a story such as this, in its original form and in its original, i.e., rural and peasant, context? In the various ways in which the story is usually interpreted, the purpose in telling it is relatively clear: it encodes a "religious" message about salvation-history, or promotes a similarly "religious" challenge to seize the moment (as seems to be its function within the context of Thomas's redaction), or deliberately challenges its hearers' existential assumptions, or even (as seems to be the basis for its [preredactional?] association with sayings 63-64 in Thomas) makes a primarily ethical point about the evils of engagement with worldly wealth. But once the story has been reduced to a simple account of tenants refusing to pay their rent and attempting to seize control of the vineyard, an act of violence and social conflict that seems to have characterized rural life in antiquity to a far greater degree than biblical scholarship usually envisions (see especially MacMullen 1974: 5-6), an act with no external point of reference, it becomes rather more difficult to find anything edifying here. We might wish, with Patterson, to see in the story something like a sorry reflection on the conditions of the time, breeding violence as they did, but to do so would be to run up against the already-noted problem that this story apparently makes no moral judgments, at least not with respect to the tenants. Again, we should therefore return to the simple (but apparently elusive) point that this story is really about what it appears to be about. It is no more-and no less!-than a fictional. but realistic, account of an episode in which some tenants are apparently successfully able, by virtue of their cleverness and resolve, to thwart the depredations of their landlord. The story, understood in this fashion, has less to do with any particularly edifying moral or "religious" point than it does with the description of power-relations in a rural, Galilean, first-century context, and especially with the delight or surprise occasioned by the parable's "happy ending." Yes, as the dominant strain of contemporary parable interpretation asserts, there is a narrative "surprise" or "frustration of expectations" contained in this story. But the function of that
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151
surprise does not work against the natural social identifications of the original hearers, but rather with and in support of those identifications. The hearer expects a negative resolution to the story, a resolution in which the problem (the collection of rent) facing the story's protagonists, those with whom the hearer identifies (the tenants), overwhelms their efforts. This expectation is encoded not by narrative structure so much as by the typical experiences and lived reality of those to whom the story is told, although the narrative structure as well, with its repeated "sendings" and raising of the stakes, tends to support such an expectation. In particular, the sending of the son, we might infer, would and should appear to be the final straw: the tenants, in the face of the authority represented by the heir, finally capitulate, and pay their rent. Our putative original listener, then, experiences a moment of surprised delight at the story's conclusion. At the very point at which we expect the tenants' efforts finally to be frustrated, they are able to seize a decisive victory. For the moment, at least, power has been met with power, and the underdog has prevailed. If such a reading seems rather strained or implausible, we might do well to look to contemporary parallels for such a phenomenon. These parallels may be found in the "Aesopic" fable tradition at least from the time of the Principate. G. E. M. de Ste. Croix (1981: 444) views these fables as the only remaining
sources we have for the voices and self-consciousness of antiquity's slave underclass, and for good reason. Phaedrus, himself a freedman of Augustus and a composer offables, claims outright that "the slave, being liable to punishment for any offense, since he dared not say outright what he wished to say, projected his personal sentiments into fables and eluded censure under the guise of jesting with made-up stories" (Phaedrus, 3. pro!. [Perry 1965: 255]). The content of these stories seems to bear out Phaedrus's theory. The fables reveal, for instance, a cynical (or, rather, realistic) attitude toward politics: "a change of sovereignty brings to the poor nothing but a change in the name of their master"; "poor folk suffer when the mighty quarrel" (Phaedrus, 1.5 [Perry 1965: 211]; 1.30 [Perry 1965: 227]. cited by Ste. Croix 1981: 444). In some instances, indeed, more directly subversive points are drawn: However lofty in station men may be, they should, nevertheless, be apprehensive of lowly persons; for shrewdness may learn a lesson and find the way open to revenge. One day an eagle carried off a fox's cubs and put them in her nest
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they oppress-which is being communicated by the parable of the tenants in its older, non-allegorical, form, albeit rather more crudely than is usually the case with the fables. What we are confronted with in the parable of the tenants is a story whose central point concerns the assertion of shrewd access to power by those for whom power is apparently inaccessible. It is a provocative, somewhat reassuring, and certainly subversive effort to lay claim (if only discursively) to the hidden capacities of the fox when faced with the eagle. What this particular story reveals, then, is above all the class consciousness of the peasantry. Other parables may also function in essentially the same way, most notably the parable of the unjust judge (Luke 18:2-5) and the parable of the dishonest steward (Luke 16: 1-8). What parables such as these can tell us about the class consciousness of (at least some of) the peasantry is precisely and primarily that this consciousness was conflictual. Like the slave (as he or she is revealed in the fables), the peasant assumes an antagonistic relationship with his or her social "betters." The master, the landlord, the judge are all presented as acting in ways inimical to the interests of the servant, tenant or petitioner. Moreover, it is worth stressing that it is precisely the representatives of the
upper classes
who are
presented as the aggressors in these situations of conflict. The lower-class characters in these stories are not usually portrayed as taking independent action against some abstractly defined antagonistic social group (Thomas's
10 Phaedrus 1.28 (Perry 1965: 223·25), emphasis added. This example is not dted by Ste. Croix, who instead refers (444) to an episode in which a wolf (Phaedrus 3.7 [Perry 1965: 267-69]) refuses comfortable subjection: "1 don't choose to be a king if! can't be free to please myself." One might further cite, inter alia, "those who are scorned usually pay in the same coin" (Phaedrus 3.2 [Perry 1965: 261]); "whenever a people is hard pressed by a grim calamiry it is their leaders in high positions who are in danger; the humble, common people easily find safety in obscurity" (Phaedrus 4.6 [Perry 1965: 311]).
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parable of the assassin [98] is an exception). Instead, they simply defend themselves against individual acts of aggression or depredation actively undertaken by elites. The landlord seeks his rent, and so his tenants resist; they are not motivated, at the start of the narrative, to "correct" the circumstance of their tenancy but simply to avoid having to pay rent. The issue is perceived not as abstract or systemic, but as circumstantial and eminently practical. The episodic character of this form of resistance is very much like that conveyed vis-a-vis slaves in the fables. I I Indeed, it is by no means clear where or to what end resistance is actually being practised. Are these fables and parables intended to give advice and direct behaviour, suggesting, as it were, that their hearers should recognize the kinds ofopportunities for resistance that are described therein? Or is the act of resistance to be found merely in the
expression of resentment contained in the stories themselves? The answer is unclear, and might well include some of each. In either case, what emerges is a remarkably self-conscious view of social operations and the power differentials between classes. There is little or no reification here of discrete social phenomena into some metaphysical and broader "truth." There is little or none of the overarching kinds of ethical considerations that would dissolve the behaviours in question into a kind of universality of human behaviour. Instead, with such minimal ideological emplacement of the interactions depicted, in terms of levelling and asocial abstractions (Le., precisely, metaphysics or universal ethics), the operations of power that steer any kind of socially unequal relations between human beings are exposed starkly and transparently. If there is a single descriptive message here, it is this: human interactions are governed and determined by power, and the powerful aim to oppress the weak. But there is a prescriptive message here as well: the operations of power can be understood, and hence subverted. The weak, by dint of cleverness, sabotage and sheer ill-willed persistence, can, in individual encounters, come out on top.IZ This message is rebellious, albeit without being revolutionary.
11 The main way in which the parables are unlike the fables is the overt character of their depictions of social power relations. There is no effort to "hide" the point by recasting the narrative in terms of animals. As I have tried to argue, the parables mean what they say they mean. This difference probably tells us something about the relative autonomy, and the ensuing room for overt expressions of resistance, of the peasantry in contrast to slaves. 12 Note that this description of the transitory social effects of such subversion is similar to that imputed to the Cynics inseveral recent studies which have attempted to compare the
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There is no program here for the toppling of hierarchies or the structures that maintain power. There is no moral outrage that such power exists, nor any expectation that it will ever cease to exist. Such an attitude seems to reflect the standard and apparently cross-cultural" ... everyday forms of peasant resistance
" the prosaic but constant struggle between the peasantry and those who seek to extract labour, food, taxes, rents and interest from them. Most forms of this struggle stop well short of outright collective defiance. Here I have in mind the ordinary weapons of relatively powerless groups: foot dragging, dissimulation, desertion, false compliance, pilfering, feigned ignorance, slander, arson, sabotage, and so on. O. C. Scott 1987: 343) The important results here, in the end, have far more to do with the insights generated into peasant non-elite culture than with any interpretive advance vis-a-vis the (parabolic, and other) teaching of the historical Jesus. Indeed, the long-entrenched and now nearly dogmatic prejudices of our discipline aside, there are no especially compelling or definitive reasons to conclude that any of these parables were ever spoken by Jesus himself, or that the interpretations here assigned to them have anything to do with that figure's "message." But this ambiguity is irrelevant. Whatever particular historical human person first conjured up any of these stories, the insights they give us-like those we might derive from the fables-are social, not individual. And these social insights are of a particularly rare and precious variety: for they not only stem directly from a normally voiceless class of people, but represent access to those persons' self-perceptions, and, especially, to their strategies of resistance.
rhetoric of the early Jesus movement to that of the Cynics. See especially Vaage (1994); Mack (1988). I would suggest that at least some of the social intentionality these scholars describe is a slightly misrecognized form of what I have attempted to uncover here. That is, the gospel tradition witnesses to a passive and temporary, momentary and encounterbased, form of resistance to power, which has considerable analogies to the Cynic episodic resistance to the social norms of poUtesse. But to infer the latter as an explanation for the gospel tradition is to push the analogy too far, failing to account for the radical differences between the social context of most of the Cynics (urban, non-peripheral and of relatively high social status) and that of the earliest tradents of the Jesus material (rural, peripheral and of low status).
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References Arnal, William E. 1995 "The Rhetoric of Marginality: Apocalypticism, Gnosticism, and Sayings Gospels." Harvard Theological Review 88: 471-94. Bauer, Walter, William F. Arndt and F. Wilbur Gingrich 1979 [ 1957] A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature. Second cd. ChicagolLandon: University of Chicago Press. Crossan, John Dominic 1973 In Parables: The Challenge of the Historical Jesus. San Francisco: Harper & Row. Davies, Stevan L. 1983 The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Wisdom. New York: Seabury. 1996 "Mark's Use of the Gospel ofThornas." Neotestamentica: The Journal of the New Testament Society of South Africa 30: 307-34. Dodd, C. H. 1961 The Parables of the Kingdom. Rev. ed. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons. Fallon, Francis T. and Ron Cameron 1988 "The Gospel of Thomas: A Forschungsbericht and Analysis." In H. Temporini (ed.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der romischen Welt, 2.25.6.4195-4251. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Funk, Robert W. 1966 Language, Hermeneutics, and the Word of God. New York: Harper & Row. Funk, Robert W. and Roy W. Hoover 1993 The Five Gospels: The Search for the Authentic Words of Jesus. New York: Macmillan. Horsley, Richard A. 1994 "Innovation in Search of Reorientation: New Testament Studies Rediscovering Its Subject Matter." Journal of the American Academy of Religion 62: 1127-66. JilHcher, Adolf 1910 Die GleichnisredenJesu. Vals. 1-2. Second ed. Tilbingen: Mohr. Kloppenborg, John S. 1989 "The Dishonoured Master (Luke 16,1-8a)." Biblica 70: 474-95. Lambdin, Thomas 0., trans. 1988 [1977] "The Gospel of Thomas." In James M. Robinson (gen. ed.), The Nag Hammadi Library in English, 124-38. Third ed. San Francisco: Harper & Row.
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Mack, Burton L. 1988 A Myth of Innocence: Mark and Christian Origins. Philadelphia: Fortress. "Teaching in Parables: Elaboration in Mark 4:1-34." In Burton L. 1989 Mack and Vernon K. Robbins, Patterns of Persuasion in the Gospels, 143-60. Sonoma: Polebridge. MacMullen, Ramsay 1974 Roman Social Relations: 50 B.c. to A.D. 284. New Haven/London: Yale University Press. Marx, Karl 1990 [1867] Capital, Vol. 1. Trans. Ben Fowkes. London: Penguin. Menard, Jacques-E. 1975 L'Evangile sewn Thomas. Leiden: Brill. Meyer, Marvin W. 1990 "The Gospel of Thomas: Text and Translation." In John S. Kloppenborg, Marvin W. Meyer, Stephen]. Patterson and Michael G. Steinhauser, Q-Thomas Reader, 128-58. Sonoma: Polebridge. Patterson, Stephen J. 1990 "The Gospel of Thomas: Introduction." In Kloppenborg et al., Q-
1993
Thomas Reader, 77-123. The Gospel of Thomas and Jesus. Sonoma: Polebridge.
Patterson, Stephen]. and James M. Robinson
1998
The Gospel of Thomas Comes of Age. Harrisburg: Trinity Press
International. Perry, Ben Edwin, trans.
1965
Babrius and Phaedrus. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
QUispel, Gilles
1969 "Gnosis and the New Sayings ofJesus." EranosJahrbuch 38: 261-96. Richardson, Peter 1992 "Why Turn the Tables? Jesus' Protest in the Temple Precincts." In Eugene H. Lovering (ed.), SBL 1992 Seminar Papers, 507-23. Atlanta: Scholars Press. 1997 "Enduring Concerns: Desiderata for Future Historical-Jesus Research." In William E. Arnal and Michel Desjardins (eds.). Whose Historical}esus?, 296-307. Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. Scott, Bernard Brandon 1989
Hear Then the Parable: A Commentary on the Parables of Jesus. Minneapolis: Fortress.
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Scott, James C. "Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Struggle, Meaning and Deeds." In 1987 Teodor Shanin (ed.), Peasants and Peasant Societies, 343-45. Second ed. [First ed., 1971, does not include Scott's article.] Oxford/New York: Blackwell. Ste. Croix, G. E. M. de
1981 Stern, David 1989
The Class Struggle in the Ancient Greek World: From the Archaic Age to the Arab Conquests. London: Duckworth. "Jesus' Parables from the Perspective of Rabbinic Literature: The Example of the Wicked Husbandmen." In Clemens Thoma and Michael Wyschogrod (eds.), Parable and Story in Judaism and Christianity, 42-80. New York: Paulist.
Taylor, Vincent
1963 The Gospel According to St. Mark. London: Macmillan. Turner, H. E. W. and Hugh Montefiore 1962 Thomas and the Evangelists. Naperville: Allenson. Vaage, LeifE. Galilean Upstarts: Jesus' First Followers According to Q. Valley Forge: 1994 Trinity Press International. Valantasis, Richard 1997 The Gospel of Thomas. London/New York: Routledge.
10
PLACING JESUS OF NAZARETH: TOWARD A THEORY OF PLACE IN THE STUDY OF THE HISTORICAL JESUS l HALVOR MOXNES
With his magisterial historical study, Herod: King of the Jews and Friend of the Romans, Peter Richardson has presented an intriguing parallel to historical studies concerning that other "King of the Jews": Jesus of Nazareth. The biblical narratives themselves make this connection. The Gospel of Matthew sets up Jesus as a kingly threat
to
Herod, who, according to the legend,
retaliated by killing all newborn boys in Bethlehem (Richardson 1996: 295-98). Moreover, in the time of Herod's son, Antipas, the passion narrative accusation against Jesus was that he presented himself as King of the Jews, an act that was regarded as a symbol of revolt against the emperor Oohn 19: 12). In this brief essay I would like to point to an approach to the study of Herod and Jesus that highlights commonalities, complementing Richardson (1997: 297 -99), who has focussed on the differences.
1. "Herod Shaped the Wodd" What I find most intriguing for a study of the historical Jesus is the way in which Richardson constructs his picture of Herod. He moves beyond a mere construction on the basis of texts and draws on the architectural evidence for "the reconstruction of society and its concerns, the sense of cultural and religious conflicts on a larger scale" (1996: xii). That is, the buildings, structures and places that Herod built, their location, function and meaning, become important material for Richardson's picture of Herod (chaps. 8 and
Earlier versions of this study have been presented as lectures at the universities of Copenhagen and Arhus in Denmark, and at the SBL annual meeting in Orlando in 1998. Another, longer version is printed in Danish in Engberg-Pedersen (1998: 10.3-26),
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10). It is Richardson's eye, trained in architecture. that makes him see the importance of material structures. But his perspective is even wider. clearly evidenced by chapters on the geo-political region of Syria and its dependent areas (chap. 4), as well as on the geographical and economic character of the regions of Herod's kingdom (chap. 6). Taken together these chapters amount to a presentation of the space in which Herod lived, where he created places, and thereby political control and social and economic relations. No doubt Richardson is right when he says that Herod "shaped the world in which early Christianity began" (1996: xiii). In Richardson's construction Herod's Palestine is an example of place not as something given, but as something created by humans (Smith 1987). It is ironic, however, that it has been impossible to locate his burial place within the impressive structures of Herodium which he built for that purpose. Thus, he shaped the world through his politics and building projects, but then he disappeared from the space that he had created. 2. "The Son of Man Has Nowhere to Put His Head" It seems a good idea for a construction of the historical Herod to focus on "space" and "place," but can it also work for a construction of the historical Jesus? It would mean entering the common space that they occupied from very different locations. Herod ruled his kingdom and was at the centre of the power pyramid of Palestine. His was a political geography that he strongly influenced, since the use and control of the land, as well as its economy and religious observance, were part of politics. Jesus came from the lower part of the power pyramid, and he lived within the geography created by Herod and his successors. In a way, he also shaped the landscape of Palestine, but at a much later time when Christian villages were established in Galilee and churches put up over the holy places in Jerusalem, Bethlehem and elsewhere from the time of Constantine. But is this perspective useful for a study of Jesus in his own time? The present stage of historical-Jesus studies, the so called "third quest," shows great interest in the context of Jesus, in particular the geographical, socio-economic, political and religious settings in Galilee (Arnal and Desjardins 1997). Richardson (1997: 300-301) points specifically to the need for more attention to archaeological and artifactual data, as well as closer studies of the
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socio-historical setting, especially of the regions surrounding Galilee. It is impossible to undertake such detailed studies here, but I can point to an approach that attempts to combine texts and contexts with a focus on place and identity. In theological as well as historical studies there is a growing interest in place, for instance in the meaning of different places (for example, mountains, sea, seashore, temple, house) in the gospel narratives and more generally in the land itself in Jewish and Christian theology (Davies 1974). This interest in place and space in biblical studies is not a singular phenomenon. There is a growing concern for "space" and construction of identity in geography and anthropology, as well as in cultural and literary studies. In these studies we also find theoretical discussions of the meaning of place, and of place in the construction of identity. Therefore, we shall draw on this literature in an attempt to see the role of Jesus in place. 3. A Theory of Place and Social Relations We find an approach that can encompass both Herod and Jesus in their relations to space in the methodology developed by David Harvey and Henri Lefebvre (Harvey 1989j Lefebvre 1991[19741). In The Condition of Postmodemity Harvey points to alterations in the ways in which we experience space and time as factors that have contributed greatly to recent cultural, political and economic changes. One of Harvey's main concerns in his book is to investigate the relation between space and social relations. He says that "command over space is a fundamen tal and all pervasive source of social power in and over everyday life" (1989: 226). Harvey's "grid of spatial practices" is a detailed and complicated construction, and it gives a good grasp of many aspects of the social practice of space. In the horizontal line of his grid there are four aspects of spatial practice, two of which are of particular interest for us. The first is "appropriation and use of space." It examines "the way in which space is occupied by objects ... , activities (land uses), individuals, classes and other social groupings." The other is "domination and control of space." It reflects "how individuals and powerful groups dominate the organisation and production of space." The two others are "accessibility and distanciation" and "the production of space"-for instance, in terms of new systems ofland use, transportation and communication (1989: 219,222). These aspects, which Harvey terms "more conventional," outline
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various types of social practices and power relations used in more traditional geographical, historical and sociological studies. The most innovative part of the theory is the way in which Harvey, inspired by Lefebvre, relates these various practices to three dimensions that form the vertical side of the grid: (1) "material spatial practices," which refer to physical and material flows in and across space "to assure production and social reproduction"; (2) "representations ofspace," which "encompass all the signs and significations, codes and knowledge, that allow such material practices to be talked about and understood"; and (3) "spaces of representation," or "mental inventions (codes, signs, 'spatial discourses,' utopian plans, imaginary landscapes, and even material constructs such as symbolic spaces, particular built environments, paintings, museums and the like) that imagine new meanings or possibilities for spatial practices" (1989: 218·19).
It is the combination of these aspects that makes Harvey's grid so comprehensive in an analysis of a specific context. In order to apply it to Palestine in the first century CE, we need to know the structures and systems of that particular society. I will draw on K. C. Hanson and Douglas E. Oakman (1998) who explain, in an exemplary fashion based on kinship, political patronage, political economy and religion, the social forms and the sources of power in Palestine at the time of Jesus. Hanson and Oakman apply models from the social sciences about agricultural empires and peasant societies.
It is Harvey's use of the three dimensions (spatial practice, representation of space and spaces of representation) that I find particularly useful for an analysis of the roles of Herod and Jesus within the space of Palestine. Herod obviously had the most influence over spatial practice and representation of space, whereas it is the third dimension, spaces of representation, that provides a new perspective on the activity of Jesus. 4. Herod-"Controlling Spaces: Creating Spaces" This quotation from the study of cultural geography by Pamela Shurmer·Smith and Kevin Hannam (1994: 165) points to an important result of creating spaces, both in a material and in an ideological sense: it is an activity that generates control. With regard to the time of Herod spatial practice includes all activities-production, reproduction, trade, consumption-that go on in the various types of space: house, village and city, including Jerusalem and the
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Temple. This practice is governed by the appropriation and use of space on the local, household and village level, but also by the domination and control of space by the Herodian and local elite, the Temple authorities and the imperial powers of Rome. Herod's building of roads, harbours, aqueducts and other forms of infrastructure provides typical examples of a production of space that overcomes distances due to mountains, deserts and so forth, to create social interaction in terms of commerce and travel. His reorganization of land ownership represents domination and control of space that dislocate the former elite and influence the use of land in the villages. Richardson (1996: 191-96) points to a development in Herod's strategy and motivation for his building programs that goes beyond his personal preferences. To illuminate this point I will draw on a more general discussion of the forces that are at work when an elite exerts control or wants to dominate. Are there different forces in different types of societies, dependent, for instance, upon the particular socio-cultural form of society or place within a society? In Worlds of Desire, Realms of Power (1994) Shurmer-Smith and Hannam point to "needs," "wants" and "desires," and their correlation to particular types of societies and their structures. They identify the orientation toward needs with subsistence economies, wants with a production directed toward market and exchange, and desires with a society in which the communicative and expressive value of goods is important. Although they place these two later stages in industrial and post-industrial societies, they can be present as aspects within "traditional" societies, for instance in ancient agrarian societies like Palestine. Here we find elites who controlled the economy, and for whom conspicuous consumption (i.e., status-oriented use of goods) was important. Herod seems to have had a concern for the needs of the population of his kingdom, if only to keep its members alive and well to preserve a tax-source. At a later stage, however, there were more desires for economic expansion, for instance in establishing the large harbour at Caesarea. A permanent and strong motivation must have been desire, not just as an individual sentiment, but as a structural element. The palaces in Jerusalem, Masada and Jericho showed more than wishes for "personal comfort" (Richardson 1996: 193) j they were showpieces of conspicuous consumption and expressions of power. This holds true even more for Herod's largest project, the Temple in Jerusalem. As a
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building project, in terms of resources and labour, it was massive. But it was also a wilful creation of a monument, an example of "spatial outcomes as conscious constructions, emerging from acts of wilL Here the desire and power will be up front" (Shurmer-Smith and Hannam 1994: 165). One might say with Josephus that Herod was motivated by "piety and prestige and the peace and wealth of Judea" (Richardson 1996: 195), but on a structural level the edifice was also a construction of wealth, prestige and power. His building programs reinforced Herod's influence over the Temple institution and thereby over its control of the production and distribution of goods in Palestine (Hanson and Oakman 1998: 146). This control was to a large degree based on the Temple authorities being recognized as a legitimate power; therefore, the new Temple was a physical manifestation of ideology. Herod's Temple is thus an illustration of representation of space. Lefebvre (1991: 32-33) and Harvey think of the ideological underpinning of the power behind the spatial practice, something that represents this practice as "the order of things," as what is natural. Such representations are above all created by the perceptions of the elite. Within Judean society such definitions of obligations and natural places for individuals and groups were represented by the legal and religious systems of the Temple and Torah. Thus, I think that the most important aspect of Herod's creation of the new Temple was the representation of space in Palestine as "controlled space," in economic and political terms. But social and cultural relations were also important. Richardson points to the innovation in spatial practice in the new Temple, in the creation of spaces specifically for women and Gentiles. What does this say about the relations to non-Jews, and about the social and religious situation of women in Herod's time? Was this innovation a conscious effort by Herod to change both spatial practice and ideological representations?
5. Jesus-"Dislocating Identities" While it was possible for Herod to influence the representation of space from his position of power, this option was not available to Jesus, the peasantprophet from Galilee. Jesus lived within the confined demands of needs-in other words, the subsistence economy of the peasants, within which wants and desires were mostly unattainable and, moreover, were looked upon with suspicion. The primary domain was local use of space, subjected to the
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domination and control of space by the elites. For many there were few resources for creating places in terms of buildings, since housing for the nonelite was mostly in poorly built houses that have left few traces. Furthermore, "representation of space" was primarily an elite construction, although often accepted by the non-elite. As I try to interpret the position ofjesus in relation to a sense ofidentity in place, I take as my starting point a description by the literary critic, Lee Edelman (1994: 114). He describes a minority group in America, the Queer-movement, and the way it challenged and irritated the social-political establishment. This group was marginal to the power structures that formed the social environment, but it nevertheless had influence through provocative and symbolic acts. Edelman considers spatial imagery about identity and the function of this group, and argues that "its vigorous and unmethodological dislocations of identity create ... a zone of possibilities in which the embodiment of the subject might be experienced otherwise." This spatial metaphor about identity and the possibility of creating another embodiment is suggestive of the way in which the New Testament Jesus acted. Often the transformation that Jesus effected in people has been described only within temporal categories, a transition from "before" to "now." The relevance of this spatial perspective for a study ofJesus becomes clear when we look at the role and function of Jesus in light of the third dimension in Harvey's and Lefebvre's theory. The "spaces of representation," or imagination, represent ways in which new meanings and possibilities for spatial practice-for example, in the form of utopian plans--can he imagined. They include the opposition to aspects of spatial practice from a different perspective, from non-elite positions. Lefebvre associates them with the opposite of the "frontal relations" of representations by the elites; they embody «complex symbolisms ... linked to the clandestine or underground side of social life" (Lefebvre 1991: 33). This might include what anthropologists term "the little tradition" of the local communities, for instance various types of biblically grounded protest movements in Galilee. I find this third dimension of spaces of representation significant for the study of a non-elite relation to and shaping of space since it gives the non-elite an active role in shaping their own place (Shurmer-Smith and Hannam 1994: 125-39). Thus, it deconstructs an understanding of power as an essence that rests with the elite only, and points instead to power as a relation.
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This perspective therefore suggests that we can study Jesus not just as a passive object for the elite to control, but as an active agent. Moreover, we can study the interaction of his spaces of representation in relation to spatial practices and representations of space on the local level in Galilee, which is the focus of this study, as well as in relation to central powers in Jerusalem.
6. Place and Identity: Home Place and Village What then were the "locations of identity" in Palestine for the non-elite, and what should be our starting point for an attempt to study Jesus as one who dislocated people? Even if some studies of Jesus start with the Temple incident, that is, his relation to the central place of power (Sanders 1985), I suggest we start closer to home, that is, with house, home and village as the primary locations of identity. The locations of Jesus' parables indicate a native (ernie) point of view. Thus, Bernard Brandon Scott (1989) organizes his interpretation of the material not by the standard procedure, according to different types of parables, but according to their place. This is based on a suggestion from Jerome Neyrey about the emic perspective on place and identity: In the ancient Mediterranean world everyone had a social map that defined the individual's place in the world. It told people who they were, who they were related to, how to react and how to behave. At the centre of the map was the family, especially the father, then came the village; finally came the city and beyond, to the ends of the world. This social map furnishes a metaphorical system for the kingdom of God. (in Scott 1989: 79) It is no accident that this first example of place as a locus of meaning is family, or home place. This is where the sense of place and identiry becomes particularly strong, although "home" also can carry an ambiguous meaning (Shurmer-Smith and Hannam 1994: 29·44). It is significant that Neyrey elaborates family, "especially the father," as the first place of identity. Jonathan Smith does the same in his discussion of "home place" in a chapter titled "Father Place," introduced with a quotation from Roger Bacon: "Place is the beginning of our existence, just as a father" (1987: 24). It is puzzling to me that Smith does not pause to reflect on this statement and its implications for the relations between place and gender. He does reflect, however, upon its relation
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to power. It leads directly to something that is a major concern for him: it is not
individuals who bring place into being; rather, place is created by a social system. "Father place" is more than just the physical environment from which we come; it has "the sense of social location, of genealogy, kinship, authority, superordination, and subordination" (1987: 46). That is, implied in the very notion of home place is a set of social relations, so that a discussion of home as location of identity always necessitates a discussion of these power relations. What I suggest, therefore, is to see the identity of Galilean peasants localized primarily in the house, home and family. This is an alternative to much of the discussion of Galilean identity that has focussed on the question of Galileans' "Jewishness," especially their loyalty to the law and the Temple in Jerusalem. To start with an identity based in the home would give more prominence to a group of texts in the gospel that are related to the household and to conflicts within it. Recent studies of house, family and village economy in Palestine at the time ofJesus provide a basis for this type of perspective (e.g., Hirschfeld 1995; Cohen 1993; Fiensy 1991). Significantly, a growing number of studies on the role of women prove that "home" was not only a "father place" (Peskowitz 1993). Studies of different types of houses in Palestine and their relations to household size, economy and social structures by Santiago GUijarro (1997; 1998) provide a significant example of this type of work. In terms of spatial practice the household was a place of production and sharing of resources, as well as of reproduction and handing down of property. The house as seat of family and kinship was the main social body and a source of identity for the members. This was reflected in the representation of space associated with the family, often couched in terms of what was taken for granted: authority of the father, loyalty and obedience, honour and shame. If home and household were the central locality of identity for Galilean peasants, Jesus' break with his own family and his call to his disciples to do the same take on a much more significant role than does leaving home in a modern, individualistic society. It represents a dislocation at the single most important point for identity, and a relocation in a liminal situation. If we can retroject from the literary sources,life in the Jesus movement was characterized by a lack of familial support and resources (cf. Neyrey 1995). The gospel narratives give an indication of the significance of this break on the part of
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Jesus in that it corresponds to the start of his public career, and his gathering of a group of followers and establishment of a new primary group. There are a number of texts that speak mainly to this liminal situation, while others take on the character of spaces of representation-i.e., plans for a new type of group, of un-related people brought together in a family-like group (fictive kinship). It is helpful to notice what type of conflict this is. Most calls to leave a household are to leave the paternal household (Mark 1: 16-20; 10:29-31); thus, the conflict is over issues like hierarchy, power and control of resources. At stake, therefore, is the social organization of home space. Jesus signals a new spatial practice, overturning filial obedience and providing open access to table fellowship rather than a closed table. The new embodiment that Jesus makes possible after dislocating his followers from their previous identity is a form of asceticism (Allison 1998) that rejected the paternal household, wealth and possessions, and in some instances also marriage and sexuality. 7. Villages and Boundaries
It has been argued, especially by Richard Horsley (1993), that Jesus' primary purpose was the renewal of village life according to the traditional values that were threatened by outside forces. But a break with the household also represented a break with local authority and customs. My point is that Jesus' conflicts in the villages should be seen in terms of conflict over localized identity, and read in light of studies of local communities as loci of identity. The classic study by Robert Redfield (1955) shows how "the little community" has a number of characteristics that are important for human identity: it is small, it is distinctive, it is homogenous and it is self-sufficient. The determinative role of the village community throws light on the narratives about Jesus' conflicts with the local synagogues. Recent studies have shown that a large number of synagogues in Galilee came much later than the first century CE (Flesher 1994), and that the influence of Pharisees and rabbis in them was also a later phenomenon (Levine 1992). Our perceptions of the synagogues mentioned in the gospel narratives have been coloured by much later traditions. In Galilee at the time of Jesus, synagogues most likely were gathering places for the village, and they were dominated by local community leaders. At least some of the narratives about Jesus in synagogues reflect their position as localities for village identity, and
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the centre of the conflicts seem to be that Jesus was perceived to be challenging fundamental values in the community. These values were not expressed as an abstract law; they were ~mbedded in the role of tradition in the authority of the elders and in the honour of the community. This is highlighted in the narrative of the conflict in the synagogue in Nazareth (Mark
3:1-6; Matt 13:53-58):
Jesus was perceived as going beyond the boundaries of proper behaviour, of overextending himself and not keeping his place as a son of Joseph, whose other sons and daughters were still part of the local village: What shall we make of the observation that midway in all the gospels the synagogue assembly disappears from sight as a location for the activities of Jesus? There is a change in place, Jesus moves his activities to other, less formalised and structured places: the agora in towns, the seashore, the lake, the open road, mountains, the wilderness. In comparison with the "synagogue" as the organised structure of the community, these other places arc "liminal," outside the structures. This change in place is followed also by a change in the constitution of the group. Instead of the local community based in the village with its formal and informal leadership structures, we read about a small, more or less stable group of disciples and changing groups of followers. If the gospel narratives are to be trusted in terms of types of followers, some appear to have been already in a marginal position: sick, "sinners," tax collectors; others were people who had chosen a liminal position to follow Jesus. It appears to be a combination of people in marginal and liminal positions, typical of groups at the "communitas" stage of group formation. (Turner 1974: 231-34) Maybe the much-debated issue of Jesus' relation to the Jewish law is not suited to solve the question of whether Jesus represented something new in terms of Jewish identity. Maybe the question should be raised in terms of identity and localization as it is being discussed in social anthropology and geography. In an important essay on ethnic groups and boundaries the social anthropologist Fredrik Barth has argued that it is "the ethnic boundary that defines the group, not the cultural stuff it encloses" (1969:
15). Thus, we should focus more on
the questions regarding boundary-making in terms of space and locations. The well-known studies by Mary Douglas (Purity and Danger, 1966; Natural Symbols,
1970) have inspired understanding of purity laws in terms of boundary-making related to body as space. The boundaries are drawn in relation to what enters and goes out through body orifices, or the lines drawn around tables at meals
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in terms of integration or exclusion from the social body. Therefore, the main question is not Jesus' attitude to the Law, but whether we can see elements of a boundary-making that relocate and embody followers of Jesus in a different social body. This social relocation should be studied together with the question of Jesus' movements in space, in and around Galilee, for instance in the Decapolis cities, T yre and Sidon, and their hinterlands, and the area toward Caesarea Philippi. This is a question that has not been much discussed in recent historical-Jesus studies, and Richardson rightly points to the need for further detailed studies of the areas surrounding Galilee and their history, culture and social situations (1997: 301). Is there a correspondence between the liminality of some of these areas, in contrast to the Jewish areas in Galilee, and the social liminality of the people attracted to Jesus? Should we see Jesus' activities here not as dislocation but as the relocation of people in new social bodies, maybe more in terms of sporadic group formations than in permanent bodies? Thus, these groups maybe were more liminal, lasting for a while before people returned to their previous life in the villages.
8. Invisible Cities? This heading is taken from the title ofltalo Cal vino' s fascinating novel (1974), grounded in the report by Marco Polo about cities he had seen on his travels. The title gives cause for two reflections. First, how strange it is that the two major towns of Galilee, Sepphoris and Tiberias, are not mentioned in the gospels. Nazareth was not far from Sepphoris, and in this relatively small area it is almost unthinkable that Jesus would not have visited this town. Second, it is also strange that the economic and political power that these urban centres wielded in Galilee is so little visible in the gospels. The same is true of Jerusalem and the economic power of the Temple which is downplayed. In many presentations of the historical Jesus these aspects are also invisible. Why are these cities invisible? There are various attempts to explain this. The two Galilean cities were founded or re-established by Herod Antipas and were developed as administrative centres. Archaeological evidence, most secure from the second century CE, shows that they had institutions typical of Roman cities, like theatres. There are two main scholarly branches of interpretation concerning
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the role of these cities: one emphasizes their function as centres of Hellenistic culture, the other their function as economic markets. The first group is represented by Burton Mack (1988) and John Dominic Crossan (1991), who suggest that from these cities Hellenistic culture spread to the countryside. Thus, the most important spatial practice was the exchange and diffusion of cultural impulses, almost by osmosis, between city and villages. We have here, then, a plausible scenario for Jesus as an itinerant Cynic-like preacher. This view is rejected outright by another group, represented by E. P. Sanders (1993), Eric Meyers (1979; 1985) and Sean Freyne (1997). They find a much larger cultural chasm between the urban centres and the peasant village population. In their views, there was an economic interaction in the form of work, markets and trade, but no takeover of Hellenistic culture; instead, the villagers remained loyal to specifically Israelite norms and values and to the Temple in Jerusalem. For Sanders and Meyers the main interaction ("spatial practice") between urban centres and the villagers was in the form of trade and markets. Like Mack and Crossan, and their view of equality and non-domination by the centres in cultural matters, Sanders and Meyers presuppose an economic exchange based on equality and non-domination. In my view, in both positions there is a tendency to separate the two areas of economic and cultural exchange too neatly, and also to emphasize the harmonious relations between city and hinterland, urban centres and peasant villages, with the result that the power relations are obscured (Hanson and Oakman 1998: 99-129). Freyne, who in his earlier works represented a harmony model of the social and economic situation in Galilee, has more recently moved much closer to a conflict model. He now suggests (1995) that maybe the most controversial aspect of the Hellenistic influence in Galilee was precisely the combination of cultural and economic elements. Freyne argues that Antipas, through the establishment ofSepphoris and Tiberias, introduced an economic model that built on Hellenistic presuppositions. A social elite dominated in economic affairs and justified their activities by means of an extension of patron-client relations. If we correlate Freyne's analysis with Harvey's model of space (1989: 218-19), we might say that this represents a situation in which the material practice in space was dominated and controlled by powerful groups in Galilean society, and that this practice was legitimized through an ideology based on Hellenistic ideals.
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9. Parables as "Spaces of Representation" Jesus' relation to Sepphoris and Tiberias is therefore not primarily a question of whether he had visited these cities or not. Rather, the relevant question is whether Jesus understood the space of the village population as a space under domination and control. When we pose the question this way many of Jesus' parables become immediately relevant-for instance, those related to the contrast between rich and poor (Luke 16:19-31), or the relations between patron and clients (Luke 16:1-9; Matt 20:1-15). William Herzog (1994) has analyzed a number of parables in the context of a peasant society within an aristocratic system of domination. Herzog thinks that the function of the parables is to provoke reflection about domination and exploitation. They are meant to make it possible to speak about this domination in story form, to create representations of space. And their point of view is different from that of the elite, who justified control and domination. Instead, the parables subvert this discourse. One thinks of the story of the dishonest steward (Luke 16: 1-9). Although this parable is difficult to interpret and the servant is a morally ambiguous character, the outcome is hopeful for the peasants. Other kingdom parables are more straightforward in the way they break with the old organization of space (e.g., Luke 14:7-24). They are spaces of representation; they draw up localities with new social structures, freed from domination. They show how people are liberated to act in space in a new way, for instance as honoured guests inside the house instead of beggars on the outside. I suggest that we read Jesus' kingdom parables not as a fourth spatial category, in addition to house, village and city, but as a space of representation that relates to and challenges the spatial structure of these other places by establishing alternative structures. I have focussed on Galilee, since this region was the starting point for a localization of Jesus, but Jesus in Jerusalem should also be studied, since that was the central space, in terms of power, economy and ideology. I can here only indicate how the final conflict in Jerusalem can be illuminated through a comparative approach to seeing Herod and Jesus "in place." We may contrast Herod's (re)building of the Second Temple and the enormous influence it had as a representation of space with Jesus' controversial act in the Temple precincts. This act still defies a full interpretation, but at the very least it must have been regarded as incompatible with respect for the
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elite's ideology of the Temple, and thus represented a conflicting representation of space. Although just a sketch, I hope that this essay will encourage others
to
follow up Richardson's call for more integration of textual, archaeological and geographical evidence. The advantage to the perspective we have sketched in this essay is that we see "place" not as empty, a given context, but as something that is created and contested. Within the spatial practice of Galilee, legitimated by the dominant representation of space, the New Testament Jesus offered criticism of two sorts. In terms of the spatial practice of the house, household and village, he dislocated at least some people and established new groups-that is, he relocated them in a fictive kinship group in a liminal position. Jesus also addressed the spatial practice of those who dominated the villages. His kingdom parables were "imagined kingdoms" that dislocated unjust power. As spaces of representation they were liberated spaces that suggested new social relations.
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References Allison, Dale C.
1998 Jesus of Nazareth: Millenarian Prophet. Minneapolis: Fortress. Arnal, William E. and Michel Desjardins (eds.) 1997 Whose Historical]esus? Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. Barth, Fredrik, ed. 1969 Calvino, Iralo 1974
Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture Difference. London: Allen & Unwin.
[19721 Invisible Cities. Trans. William Weaver. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. Cohen, Shaye]. D. (ed.) 1993 The Jewish Family in Antiquity. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Crossan, John Dominic 1991 The Historical Jesus: The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant. San Francisco: HarperCollins. Davies, W. D. The Gospel and the Land. Berkeley: University of California Press. 1974 Douglas, Mary 1966 Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Natural Symbols: Explorations in Cosmology. London: Barrie and 1970 Rackliff. Edelman, Lee 1994 Homographesis: Essays in Gay Literary and Cultural Theory. New York: Routledge. Engberg-Pedersen, T roels 1998 Den hisroriske}esus og hans betydning. K¢benhavn: Gyldendal. Fiensy, David A. 1991 The Social History of Palestine in the Herodian Period. Lewiston: Edwin Mellen. Flesher, Paul Virgil McCracken 1994 "Palestinian Synagogues Before 70 C.E.: A Review of the Evidence." In Jacob Neusner and Ernest S. Frerichs (eds.), Approaches to Ancient Judaism, Vol. VI: Studies in the Ethnography and Literature of Judaism, 67·81. Atlanta: Scholars Press.
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Freyne, Sean 1995
"Jesus and the Urban Culture of Galilee." In David Hellholm and Torn Fornberg (eds.), Text and Contexts: Biblical Texts in Their
Textual and Situational Contexts: Essays in Honor of Lars Hartman, 597 -622. Oslo: Scandinavian University Press. "Galilean Questions to Crossan's MediterraneanJesus." In Arnal and 1997 Desjardins, Whose HiswricalJesus!, 63-91. Guijarro, Santiago 1997 "The Family in First-Century Galilee." In Halvor Moxnes (ed.),
1998
Constructing Early Christian Families: Family as Social Reality and Metaphor, 42-65. London: Routledge. Fidelidades en confliew: La ruptura con la familia por causa del discipulado y de la mision en la tradicion sinoptica. Salamanca:
Universidad Pontificia de Salamanca. Hanson, K. C. and Douglas E. Oakman
1998
Palestine in the Time of Jesus: Social Structures and Social Conflicts. Minneapolis: Fortress.
Harvey, David
1989
The Condition of Postmodemity: An Enquiry into the Origins of Cultural Change. Oxford: Blackwell. Herzog, William R., II 1994 Parables as Subversive Speech. Louisville: WestminsterlJohn Knox. Hirschfeld, Yizhar
1995
The Palestinian Dwelling in the Roman-Byzantine Period. Jerusalem:
Franciscan Printing Press/Israel Exploration Society. Horsley, Richard A. 1993 Jesus and the Spiral of Violence. Minneapolis: Fortress. Lefebvre, Henri 1991 [1974l The Production of Space. Trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith. Oxford: Blackwell. Levine, Lee I. "The Sages and the Synagogue in Late Antiquity: The Evidence of 1992 the Galilee." In Lee I. Levine (ed.), The Galilee in Late Antiquity, 20122. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Mack, Burton L. 1988 A Myth of Innocence: Mark and Christian Origins. Philadelphia: Fortress. Meyers, Eric M. 1979 "The Cultural Setting of Galilee: The Case of Early Judaism." In Hidegard Temporini (ed.), Aufstiegund Niedergang der romischen Welt, 2.19.1.686-701. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter.
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"Galilean Regionalism: A ReappraisaL" In William S. Green (ed.),
Approaches to Ancientludaism V, 115-31. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Neyrey, Jerome H. 1995 "Loss of Wealth, Loss of Family and Loss of Honour." In Philip F. Esler (cd.), Modelling Early Chr~tianity: Social-Scientific Studies of the New Testament in Its Context, 139-58. London/New York: Routledge. Peskowitz, Miriam 1993 "Family/ies in Antiquity: Evidence from Tannaitic Literature and Roman Galilean Architecture." In Cohen, The Jewish Family in
Antiquity, 9-36. Redfield, Robert
1955
The Little Community: Viewpoints for the Study of the Human Whole.
Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Richardson, Peter 1996 Herod: King of thelews and Friend ofthe Romans. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press. 1997 "Enduring Concerns: Desiderata for Future Historical-Jesus Research." In Arnal and Desjardins, lX'hose H~torical]esus?, 296-307. Sanders, E. P. 1985 Jesus andludaism. Philadelphia: Fortress. 1993 The Historical Figure of Jesus. London: Penguin. Scott, Bernard Brandon 1989 Hear Then the Parable: A Commentary on the Parables of Jesus. Minneapolis: Fortress. Shurmer-Smith, Pamela and Kevin Hannam 1994 Worlds of Desire, Realms of Power: A Cultural Geography. London: Edward Arnold. Smith, Jonathan Z. 1987 To Take Place: Toward Theory in Ritual. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Turner, Victor 1974 "Passages, Margins and Poverty: Religious Symbols of Communitas." In Victor Turner, Dramas, Fields and Metaphors: Symbolic Action in Human Society, 231-71. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
11
IRONY, TEXT AND ARTIFACT: CROSS AND SUPERSCRIPTION IN THE PASSION NARRATIVES PAUL W. GOOCH
Although texts are essential to the Christian religion, the central and distinguishing object of Christianity is not a book, but a cross. Affixed to that artifact is a brief text; "King of the Jews." 1 That text, however, is ironic. In this essay I offer some reflections on irony, text and artifact in the passion narratives, especially of Mark and John. For this purpose, it is unnecessary to provide a complete account of what Linda Hutcheon has called "the unbearable slipperiness of irony" (1994; 116). But we can acknowledge that in any recognizably ironic text or situation there is a conflict or tension between two levels of meaning-between what is said or signified, and what is not but is nevertheless intended (in some fashion) as evaluative comment. That is most clearly seen in the irony that is one form of sarcastic speech, in which language normally positive is used to the opposite intent in a context where an audience-often but not necessarily including the victim to be targeted-will catch the point. Here irony reveals its ancestry from the Eipwv of Greek drama, the sly dissimulator who does not reveal his true
I treat the irony in this text as a literary/philosophical issue; I also assume that Jesus was executed by crucifixion and that there was a charge identifying him as King of the Jews (see Bammel1984 on the authenticity of the superscription; and Sanders 1985: 294). I do not explore just how the details of the evangelists' accounts fit with what else is known of crosses and crucifixions in the ancient world; for a recent account with bibliography, see Rousseau and Arav (1995). I cannot refrain from quoting one sentence: reporting that medical studies conclude that the victim of crucifixion died by asphyxiation, Rousseau and Arav add that uF. Zugibe questions this view ... but his short experiments on volunteer students arc inconclusive" (199): 75). What those students underwent I do not know; hut I do know that Peter Richardson's graduate students have found him an exemplary mentor! I offer to him this essay as a gesture of appreciation for his valued contribution to scholarship, and for the (now too-long past) pleasure of having worked together with him on Pauline ethics.
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mind, but whose outward mask the author cracks open to the audience's view. But if not all irony is deceptive (the intended meaning is sometimes unmistakable) or cruel (for there is a mild ironic temperament that simply enjoys the play of oppositions), nevertheless irony does depend on there being, in the observer, some complicity in the unsaid or unsignified. This complicity may be illustrated in what is called dramatic irony. Here a character within the drama speaks and acts out of one set of understandings, but the author has constructed the situation so as to make the audience complicit in a different understanding. Ironic intention is shared in this case between author and reader rather than between speaker and hearer. We find these ironies at work in the passion narratives, with Pontius Pilate the source but also the object of irony. In all the trial narratives, it is Pilate who is the author of the phrase that becomes the superscription, asked in his opening interrogation: "Are you the King of the Jews?" As a phrase affixed to the cross, it is an identifier of a person with a role (as the sign on the door, "Principal of University College," identifies the occupant as the academic administrator of the founding college of the University of Toronto) . But its use in the trial and in the superscription is not standard. Pilate did not employ the title with Jesus as he might have used it had he been able to meet Herod the Great, for instance. Just what level of sarcasm might be heard in his voice, and where there is irony, what kinds of irony-those questions will occupy us here. They can be more readily explored if we look first at how the phrase gets picked up by the other actors in the narratives. That means, primarily, the soldiers who (in Mark's and Matthew's accounts) take Jesus to be scourged before being crucified. They must have heard the title in Pilate's question, and decide to utter it as an acclamation, in strong and biting irony: "Hail, King of the Jews!" Of course the title is ironic: this poor, weak, silent excuse for a man, deserted by his followers, is the very opposite of a king. Their irony is of the sort that has a victim, and an identifiable group of victimizers to observe the little drama (the whole company is called to watch, Mark 15:16/lMatt 27:27). Although there are props, costumes and theatrical gestures, this should not, however, be considered a simple parody, or only an attempt to poke fun at someone whose pretences require exposure. Irony often serves deflationary purposes-think of political satire. The purpose in mind here, though, is more destructive than deflationary,
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for these soldiers are about to pin Jesus to a cross and kill him. The ironic acclamation is only one theme in the prelude to execution. Given this context, then, the most appropriate verb for the soldiers' actions is ell1t(xi(w, "to mock or make sport of." It appears in all three Synoptic writers and is used of Roman and Jewish soldiers as well as of the religious authorities at the crucifixion. 2 Since in our own world we are not often presented with such vicious mockery, we need recourse to literature for examples. This might do: the final example of violence toward children that Dostoyevsky's Ivan relates, about the general who stripped an eight-year-old serf boy naked, then set his hounds to chase and tear him to pieces (1958). "Making sport" by the displacement of the fox by the boy is grim irony indeed. In Jesus' case too the sport is deadly, and the warming-up prelude is designed to humiliate by degradation. The parodic dressed-up figure is spat upon, beaten about the head, then flogged; he is treated like dirt (the translation "set at naught" for e~OUeEvew in Luke 23: 11 and Mark 9: 12 picks up the OUeE(~ but is too colourless in contemporary English). Context thus authorizes us to see the trappings of royalty used in the mockery as ironic artifacts, or at least artifacts whose employment in irony is transparent. The purple robe and the twisted wreath of thorns are imperial emblems (Bond 1998: 102 n.40; cf. Stahlin 1972: 266 n.46). They need no further texts or words in order to be read as negating royal status instead of conferring it; and the kneeling and making acclamation, offering obeisance, are ironic signifiers as well. Hence the title "King of the Jews" voiced by the soldiers is located among the tools for the degradation of this particular prisoner condemned to death. The recognition of intentionally cruel irony may assist us in making interpretive choices; for instance, it will call into question the suggestion that
2
Mark 15:20; Matt 27:29, 31. Luke has three occurrences, one with the high priest's guards at 22:63, one with Herod's troops at 23: 11 and one with the soldiers at the crucifixion at 23:36. (Bond's remark that "the only mockery in Luke's account is at Jewish hands" [1998: 155J must be amended because of this last reference; she herself recognizes elsewhere that these are Roman soldiers.) Mark uses the verb of the chief priests and scribes at the crucifixion (15:31), as does Matthew (27:41). John, however, does not employ this or any other similar verb of mockery. Nevertheless, just as the ironic acclamation is gratuitous spite (a flogging would be sufficient to break down the victim's defences). so the Johannine spear thrust is gratuitous desecration of Jesus after his death.
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the soldiers were engaged in a ritualized "mortification of the king.,,3 Moreover, it may help with the business of Herod's cloak. Luke does not have the Roman soldiers go through the ironic dress-up mockeryj instead, it is Herod Antipas and his soldiers who express their contempt and send Jesus back to Pilate having thrown on him a "gorgeous robe" (ea8fJ1:!t A!tf.L1tp&V, 23:11). Helen Bond calls this a "magnanimous" gesture toward Jesus on Herod's part; he realizes that Jesus is no threat at all, and that whatever claims he might have made are "utterly worthless and contemptible" (1998: 155). Magnanimity, however, requires a motive incompatible with contemptuous regard for a person, and Luke's Herod treated Jesus himself, and not just his claims, like dirt. So Herod's robe is also an ironic artifact, not a generous gift to Jesus. Of course, it might be both an ironic gesture and a gift to Pilate, on the back of Jesus; Luke says they became friends that day. 4 Even if the robe is not purple, and therefore a regal symbol, there still is the irony of contempt in making Jesus the mannequin on which the gift was delivered. Nevertheless, although due weight must be given to the intentional cruelty of the soldiers, we must not automatically assume that exactly the same kind of biting irony applies to all the other players in the drama. It does to some of them (for instance those who hurl abuse at the crucifixion), but the case of Pilate is more difficult to assess, as we will shortly see. Before that, we should take account of the wider narrative in which the mocking we have considered takes place. Mark's readers will hear, in the soldiers' ironic acclamation, twisted echoes of the hosannas offered by the crowd only a few days before. They will remember Jesus' own predictions that he would be mocked, spat upon, scourged and killed (10:34; cf. 8:31; 9: 12, 31). This wider narrative invites another understanding of what is going on here:
3 Commentators (see Bertram 1967: 634 n.21) sometimes propose to read the incident in the light of the ancient Mediterranean ritual of "mortification of the king," in which the king was stripped of royal insignia by the prie~t; he then knelt and professed innocence of wrongdoing, after which the priest returned the insignia and slapped him on the face (see Grottanelli 1987: 319). Sabbatucci says that the practice of mortification "recaIls the passion of Christ. who was crucified with the title Rex Judeorum. " mortified as an earthly king so that he could rise again as a heavenly king (1987: 115). The soldiers in Mark's and Matthew's narratives, however, know very well that Jesus is about to be put to an actual and brutal death. This is no ritual action. 4 On the animosity between Pilate and Antipas as not impossible but far from proven, see Richardson (1996: 311-12) and Bond (1998: 156).
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whatever the soldiers intend, out of malice, belongs to a story that is bigger than their own schemes, and with a meaning they cannot appreciate. In other words, there is another level of irony about the identity of Jesus presented by the author-as we will see again when we turn to Pilate. In pursuing the question of the kinds and levels of ironic discourse in Pilate's use of the title "King of the Jews," we will discover that irony is slippery indeed. The problem with viewing suspiciously the straightforward meaning of some particular utterance is that the same suspicion can quickly infect the reading of anything else the speaker says. We do know that in all the passion narratives "King of the Jews" is ironic in the superscription, for all of the reasons earlier considered. But is it ironic in the Markan Pilate's opening question to Jesus? Is it so in any or all of the other gospels? We have no conventions like "scare" quotations, nor is it possible to hear intonation in the written words. So we cannot without other evidence know whether Pilate asked this of Jesus straightforwardly, dismissively or sneeringly. Maybe it is a sarcastic question;5 or maybe it is a simple attempt to get Jesus to admit to stirring up the crowd against the authorities. Were this all we had, the manner of asking would be as ambiguous as Jesus' opaque answer, ~u AEYEtC;. Commentators differ on just when or why Pilate is ironic, according to their fundamental assumptions about his character. If we are to make progress, then, we need to be attentive to any evidence in our texts that will assist us in determining the intentions of Pilate, as distinct from his words and his actions. So it will be instructive to set out how the evangelists report Pilate's own psychological staces, including his beliefs and emotions. The evidence is brief: seven short points in all. Mark and Matthew, but neither Luke nor John, report that (1) Pilate is amazed (8cwjl&(w, 15:51/ 27:14) at Jesus' silence when faced with the charges against him. They both, but only they, state that (2) he knew-not that he believed but that he
(oux
knew-that Jesus had been brought to him out of envy 86voc;, 15: 10// 27:18; its common translation as "malice" is too general). These two 5
Feagin (1997: 125) notes Pilate's sarcasm, and claims that his contempt is demonstrated in his use of "King of the Jews" rather than "of Israel." Mark's lexical choice for Pilate, however, is common Palestinian usage on the lips of non-Jews ("Ioudaioi is used for the Jewish people on the lips of non-Jews or in the dealings ofJews with non-Jews, while Israel is the true designation not normally used by non-Jews," Gutbrod 1965: 376), and by itself gives no ground for finding irony in the question.
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evangelists conclude the trial with a comment on Pilate's state of mind in handing over Jesus for crucifixion. (3) Mark says that Pilate wished to satisfy the crowd (~oUA6f.L€VEVO~'0 OXA<.p .0 ilc!Xvov rtOlfjO!Xl, 15:15); and (4) Matthew reports that Pilate saw that nothing was being gained (iowv ...
on
ouoev W
'tOY • ITjoouv,
23:20). He gave
sentence, however, so that the rulers and people should have what they demanded, and delivered Jesus over to their will (23:25). (6) John's Pilate experiences fear at one point in the proceedings (J.1&Uov eq>oP1l8Tj, 19:8). Although most translations read as though he had been afraid earlier and now grew "more afraid than ever," Bond argues that J.1&AAOV signifies only a change in attitude: 6 upon hearing the Jews now claiming that Jesus made himself out to be the Son of God, Pilate grew rather alarmed. (7) Finally, after the exchange over the dependent nature of his authority, John's Pilate "tries hard" to release Jesus (19: 12). The verb is 'Tj'€w, so there is intentionality in the seeking, much as in (5) above. On the basis of just this composite New Testament evidence, it is obvious that Pilate's state of mind is not inhabited by the same cruel intentions as the soldiers. Luke and John attribute to him a contrary intention to release Jesus (5 and 7). Matthew's comment that nothing could help (4) strongly suggests that Pilate at least contemplated a different outcome, but judged that nothing could assist him to that end given the mood of the crowd. Even Mark's pointing to Pilate's wish to satisfy the crowd (3) creates distance between what Pilate might have desired and his sense of the angry wish of the mob.
6 The common use of l1iiA.A.OV is as a comparative adverb denoting increase. The crowd in Acts 21 :40 quiets down at Paul's gesture, but grows still more quiet (I..ICXA.A.OV, 22: 1) when he speaks in Hebrew. There is, however, no indication of any amount of fear on Pilate's pan before 19:8. Sometimes 11&A.A.OV means "instead": see Matt 25:9 where the wise virgins tell the foolish there won't be enough oil for both groups, so they should go ~&A.A.OV and buy their own. Bond suggests that this is a "similar use of the word" as in John 19:8 (1998: 187 n.93). If so, there is no clear contrasting verb or action; the unstated implication would have to be that he had felt no fear at all until this point. Hence my somewhat loose translation, "grew rather alarmed."
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There is another feature, not of the character Pilate's psychology but of his rhetoric, that we should note. Each of the Synoptic writers has Pilate ask the crowd, in identical vocabulary, what evil Jesus could have done to deserve death: ,{ yap i1WtTJOEV KaKov? (Mark 15: 14//Matt 27: 23//Luke 23:22). On the face of it, the question suggests a mind not yet made up, although when we are dealing with irony we cannot simply let it go at that. The sense is conveyed most strongly in Luke, whose Pilate three times announces he has found no case against Jesus. But John, too, thrice has Pilate make the same announcement of having found no case, although John's Pilate does not ask the "Why, what evil?" question. Of course, the end of the story is plain. Pilate does hand Jesus over to be crucified. If we were attempting a one-word description of Pilate's state of mind across these different accounts, then, we would have to speak of his ambivalence toward Jesus. Now in setting out things like this, I have stressed similarities in the four Pilate narratives. Recently Bond has argued that the gospel accounts are not of a uniform character; "they do not present a 'weak' Pilate as is often supposed. In fact, the whole usual demarcation between the 'harsh, aggressive Pilate' of Jewish sources and the 'weak, vacillating Pilate' of Christian ones is much too simplistic" (1998: 205). Her conclusion is that the Markan and Johannine Pilates are close in characterization as derisive of both Jesus and the Jews, and as manipulating the emotions of the crowd. Matthew's Pilate tries to distance himself by a hand washing gesture of innocence, although he is not completely absolved. Luke's Pilate is indeed weak, she thinks, bowing to pressure even though three times declaring that he has found Jesus innocent. There would be little reason to suspect their Pilates of the strong and biting sarcasm exhibited by the soldiers; neither uses the title "King of the Jews" after the opening question. Mark will be the most promising, then, for discovering irony in Pilate. Without additional evidence we were uncomfortable in attributing strong sarcasm to Pilate's opening question; but we are not left with uncertainty about the Markan Pilate's next two uses of the title "King of the Jews." They are ironic, and exhibit the form of irony that is biting indeed. Pilate's two questions, almost identical, are addressed to the crowd. When asked by those in the crowd to release a prisoner, he puts it to them: "Do you wish me to
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release for you the King of the Jews?" (15:9). And after the crowd has asked for Barabbas at the instigation of its leaders, Pilate repeats the phrase, but with an added sting: "What will I do with the one you call the King of the Jews?" (15:12; on textual variants in vv. 9 and 12, see Bond 1998: 115 n.87). We know that these are sarcastic questions because Mark attributes to Pilate the belief that the chief priests had brought Jesus out of envy or jealousy (point Z above). The Markan Pilate must think that Jesus poses a threat to the perceived authority of the religious leaders, that he "was winning a greater influence over the people than they had themselves" (Bond 1998: 110). So he rubs in the point by referring to Jesus as king, knowing that his use of this title would not be taken as serious; there is no way either that the Jews can have a king, or that this person in particular could be such a leader. This sort of irony requires two victims, the crowd itself, and Jesus who stands before it; the crowd is the primary target as the addressee of the question, but Jesus is the necessary secondary victim as the referent of the title. 7 Why does Pilate engage in the ironies of sarcasm here? Is he attempting to diminish the crowd by reminding it of the imperial authority of Rome? Is this an irony of contempt as well as sarcasm? Bond does not think that this is exactly the right motive to impute to Mark's Pilate. She argues that Pilate engages in this rhetoric in order to get the crowd on his side against Jesus. If the Jewish authorities are envious of the popularity of] esus, Pilate should take care: the crowd, i{jt continues its support for Jesus, could easily turn against Pilate himself. Hence he throws out the challenge in sarcastic tones: who will support this King of the Jews? The intention is not to show overt contempt for the crowd, but to manipulate it through irony into voicing its rejection of Jesus as king. If those in the crowd are complicit in this rejection, they cannot turn against Rome for crucifYing a popular figure. As Bond puts it: The governor hits upon an ingenious solution: he swops roles, putting the people in the position of judge and asking them what should be done with Jesus .... If the crowd itself could be made to acquiesce in Jesus' execution
7 Although Camery-Hoggatt (1992: 174-75) and Feagin (1997: 125-27) both discuss this incident, neither notes the double audience in Pilate's irony.
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then there could be no danger of later displays against Roman harshness. (1998: 113)8 This suggestion gives us a shrewd Pilate who knows how to employ irony to effect his own designs, just as a different type of leader might use a calculating pathos to generate sympathy. Insofar as he needs the support of the crowd, Pilate cannot afford to demonstrate overt contempt for it. But the irony is still sarcastic rather than, say, ingratiating, and it continues to have as its secondary object the most unkingly, weak, bound and silent Jesus. So on this reading we have a highly credible account of the biting irony in Pilate's second and third uses of the titie, "King of the Jews." That permits us to hear irony in Pilate's initial question to Jesus, although the sarcasm is directed to him alone. Nevertheless, Bond's Pilate is not quite the Markan Pilate as yet. In order to generate a consistently sardonic character, Bond must deal with the counter-evidence I have set out several paragraphs back-the question "Why, what evil!" and the point (3) about the Markan Pilate's desire to satisfY the crowd. Bond treats both these comments as ironic. 9 However, the irony she discovers is dramatic, generated in the reader (or at least in Bond as reader). There are two problems here. First, if her Pilate is to be derisive and sarcastic through and through, his asking about the evil Jesus is supposed to have done must be seen as sarcastic in Pilate's own mind. He cannot (pace Bond) be open to Jesus' innocence, but must rather be taunting the members of the crowd to come up with a sufficient reason in the knowledge that they cannot. And second, the un-problematic meaning of Mark 15: 15 is that Pilate was motivated by the demands of the crowd, not by his own desire to manipulate it. The only reason to find "heavy Marean" dramatic irony in this one verse is that Bond needs it. Bond's analysis of Pilate's initial motivation in employing
8 As parallel examples of a ruler using tactics of complicity, Bond cites two incidents from Josephus. The second refers to the behaviour of Herod I after his cagle had been pulled down from the Temple (Ant. 17.155-64; War 1.654-55). Herod gets the officials to agree. in effect, that the perpetrators should be punished. For comment on the incident itself, although not on Herod's psychological strategy, see Richardson (1996: 15-18). 9 The question is "heavily ironic," in that Pilate "seems to be more open to Jesus' innocence, even at this late stage. than the crowd .... Mark's readers are surely intended to realize that Jesus has not done any evil and so the crowd cannot respond to Pilate's question" (1998: 115·16). And v. 15 about wishing to satisfy the mob is "full of Marean irony: Pilate is satisfying the demands of the crowd, but these are demands which he has engineered and which suit his own purpose" (1998: 116).
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"King of the Jews" sarcastically, although perceptive, has generated too much irony in Mark, and destroyed his Pilate's ambivalence. A comment on Matthew before moving to John will illustrate another facet of the slipperiness of irony. On Bond's reading, Matthew's Pilate does not manipulate the crowd: "[AlII hints of external pressure from Pilate have been removed, giving at times a rather colourless picture of the governor" (1998: 136). Instead he absolves himself of the affair, using "a Jewish ritual of hand washing to symbolize that it is the Jewish crowd which has demanded the death ofJesus: the crowd is responsible and not he" (1998: 134). Now there is no doubt that Matthew's Pilate engages in a highly calculated symbolic action. On the dramatic level, the gesture recalls to the reader the ritual proclamation of innocence (cf. Ps 26:6) j but that does not settle the question of what is going on in the character Pilate's mind. Matthew tells us that Pilate took water, having seen that there was nothing he could do and that a riot was beginning. This strongly suggests, then, that Pilate's handwashing is calculated to bring some resolution to a situation that was getting out of hand, not simply to soothe his conscience. Why not (in a Markan fashion) see the gesture as Pilate's manipulating the crowd into taking full responsibility, even though he knew well its members were dependent upon his agreement? That certainly worked, and worked memorably. The gesture, then, would be the symbolic counterpart to the Markan Pilate's use of the title "King of the Jews"-two different tools wielded to get the crowd where he wanted it. If Pilate did have such a motive in proclaiming his innocence, then the handwashing gesture is itself another piece of irony in a passion narrative. 10 We come finally to John's presentation of Pilate's character and the ironies in the superscription's title. Many commentators regard Pilate's movement between Jesus and "the Jews" as symbolic of a weak-willed, vacillating character; he represents "the futility of attempted compromise" (Culpepper 1983: 143). John's character would then be the opposite of Mark's Pilate: it would be the crowd that coerces Pilate into doing its will by threatening him with disloyalty to Caesar. The ironic use of the language of kingship would
10 The attribution of this motive to Pilate works as well in Matthew as in Mark, for both of them attribute to Pilate the knowledge of the motive of jealousy in the arrest of Jesus (point 2 in our analysi,); and indeed, Matthew's Pilate is less ambivalent than Mark's (again on the above analysis).
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belong to the crowd: you cannot side with this "king" if you are Caesar's friend; we have no king but Caesar. Again, however, Bond has argued for a different view. Her reading of the Johannine Pilate makes him very close to the Markan character: in both accounts "the prefect is harsh and manipulative, mocking the people and goading them into rejecting their messianic beliefs" (1998: 193). That reading will work, I think, but it is not without difficulty. It gets off to a good start in the first half of the trial scene. Pilate shows little inclination to discuss the peculiar notions of kingship to which Jesus obliquely refers, responding curtly with his "What is truth?" He then goes out to the assembly to declare he has found no fault, and to ask whether the people would like the "King of the Jews" as the prisoner released to them in accordance with his Passover custom. There is no sense that Pilate is at all troubled that he has misjudged Jesus' identity, and the public use of the title "King of the Jews" gives an ironic and sarcastic tone to his words. So far, this is the Markan Pilate engaged in dialogue with the prisoner, who this time is not silent. John places the mockery of the soldiers at this intermediate point in the proceedings, so that Pilate is next able to produce the crowned and robed "king" to the assembly. Although his announcement "Behold the man!" is not linguistically identical to the Markan "What shall I do with the one you call the King of the Jews?" that identification is created visually by those ironic regal artifacts. It is not difficult to see this Pilate baiting "the Jews," playing on their emotions. All those artistic Ecce Homo representations that convey pathos are views from a place very different from Pilate's. The Roman governor taunts "the Jews" again by threatening to make them do the crucifying since he has discovered no case against him-although he knows perfectly well that they require him
to
carry out the execution. John's Pilate makes huge sport of the
assembly; he is hardbitten and cynical. But he has pushed a little too far, for he is finally given a cause: "the Jews" reply that their law requires his death because he has claimed to be the Son of God. At this statement, says John, Pilate grew rather alarmed, and sought to release Jesus after speaking privately again with him about his origins and authority. How is this psychology (set out in points 6 and 7 above) consistent with the tough and cynical governor who has been making sport of the assembly? How does it fit with the final scene's questions about crucifying their king? John tells the reader that when Pilate heard the people's "no friend to
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Caesar" shouts, he brought Jesus out again, sat down at the judgment seat, and presented their king to them again. Either he is attempting to play on their sympathy as a last stratagem in seeking to secure Jesus' release, or he continues to mock "the Jews" by underscoring in irony their political dependence. There
are problems with either alternative. Bond is right to note that on John's account Pilate could have no reason to hope that the assembly and its leaders would be at all willing to release Jesus (1998: 191), so Pilate's playing on the idea of Jesus' sorry kingship to evoke sympathy is implausible. At the same time, the explanation of continued mockery docs not adequately address the psychological changes, from contempt to fear, and from indifference about Jesus' fate to a desire to release him. All things considered, I think there is the irony of contempt rather than appeal to pity in the "Shall I crucify your king?" But it requires Pilate to undergo two swift changes of heart. Having felt alarm and sufficient uncertainty about Jesus' identity to attempt to release him, Pilate must switch back to making sport of "the Jews." Their statement about who can be friends of whom sets up an opposition between Jesus and Caesar that he decides to exploit. Knowing that they felt (in these circumstances at least) ambivalence toward Caesar and hostility to Jesus, he trades his own ambivalence toward Jesus for their confession of friendship to Caesar-a confession he now extracts through strong and black irony. Stressing similarity between John's Pilate and Mark's does not prepare us for this swift change and sudden reversion to type. So perhaps Bond's view needs some qualification: John's Pilate is far more contemptuous of "the Jews" than is Mark's; but at the same time he is also less sure about Jesus for a brief period of time. In the end, it may be impossible to account with psychological plausibility for the quick flip toward Jesus and then back again in John's Pilate. That problem weighs on the side of those who see him as vacillating. I prefer the notion of ambivalence of attitude, present in all the passion narratives to some degree. But I can now add: the reason it is there is more a matter of literary
irony than it is of the psychology of Pilate. For, from the point of view of each of the evangelists, Pilate does not fully appreciate who it is before him. John's discussion of the equivocations and ambiguities in notions of kingship, power and authority is the most explicit; and his Pilate gets unsettled for a short while by this talk. He resolves his uncertainty by returning to ironic mocking so that he can at least extract a price for being the agent of execution. Unknown
to
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him, however, his identification ofJesus as king belongs to a sphere of meaning "from above." He believes that it was solely of his own will and determination that he wrote what he wrote: "King of the Jews." But the power to write did not come from himself alone. Possessed of this conviction about divine agency, John needs to incorporate into his story evidence of mental ambivalence in this human agent. John's purpose is to provoke reflection on the identity of Jesus rather than to construct a psychologically compelling portrait of Pilate, a purpose shared by the Synoptic evangelists as well. It is time to gather these comments up into a conclusion. The irony in the passion narratives over this text and this artifact is complex and layered. By itself the cross is a potent signifier of death imposed by brute force against those who are believed to oppose the powers that be. It becomes ironic, however, through the superscription; together they bear an initial and obvious irony in announcing that this Jesus is the antithesis of any king worth the name. The title "King of the Jews" is used to mock such pretence. It gets affixed to the cross as titulus after the soldiers employ it as one ironic signifier among other ironic artifacts of royalty, for the purpose not just of parody or satire, but of degradation on the way to execution. The religious authorities also throw the title in abuse at Jesus in the version proper to them, "King ofIsrael." The title originates in Pilate's question, and he uses it sardonically in Mark and John. The object of Pilate's irony, however, is the Jews primarily and jesus only secondarily. Pilate's ambivalence toward Jesus' kingship, seen most directly in John but also in the Synoptics, is a function of dramatic irony as author positions reader to reflect on the religiOUS and political misconstructions of the identity and authority of Jesus. It is this wider irony, perhaps not improperly called theological in that it questions all human misunderstandings of the divine purpose, that underlies all the other ironies in the passion narratives. Given not only the slipperiness of irony but also its fecundity, the cross and its superscription, "King of the Jews," have generated additional puzzles and
ongoing ironies. If the four evangelists wanted to affirm that Jesus was in some fashion "King of the Jews" (and indeed three of them refer to him as "King" or "King of Israel" in their pre-passion narratives), why did early Christianity not appropriate that title for their risen Christ? The answer may have something to do with a desire not to be misunderstood as having political designs; but the
IRONY, TEXT AND ARTIFACT
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dominance of the Pauline mISSIon to the Gentile world must also have diminished the relevance of the title's reference to Jews or Israel.!! If that is not quite a puzzle of the ironic variety, we do not lack for further ironies. That the titled artifact most critical of earthly power should become the sign under which worldly conquerors marched; that the shape of a rough instrument of death should be refashioned into precious treasures; that such treasures should be replicated as costume jewellery-these ironies bear potent witness that meanings let loose in the world will wander where they will. In some domains where their ancestry is forgotten, their irony fades with time. In others, including the domain of scholarship, text and artifact continue to provoke competing understandings. That these understandings are so often located in the ironic distance between past and present that scholarship itself tends to create is, of course, but one last irony.
11 The only direct reference to Jesus as "king" outside the gospels is in Acts 17:7, and it is used by opponents. At Thessalonica, Jason is accused of harbouring Paul and Silas, and is said to go against the decrees of Caesar and to claim that there is a p<wtA.ea hEpOV, Jesus. Bond speaks of the politically" dangerous connotations" in this title because it would challenge Caesar (1998: 106). Paul does not employ the term for Jesus; only in Revelation is the title "King of kings" used ofthe Lamb (17: 14) or of the Word of God (19: 16)-and then the kingship attributed is universal, not of "the Jews" or of "Israel" only.
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References Bammel, Ernst "The titulus." In Ernst Bammel and C. F. D. Moule (eds.) , Jesus and 1984 the Politics of His Day, 353-64. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bertram, Georg 1967 [1954] "1tcd(w." In Gerhard Friedrich and Gerhard Kittel (eds.), Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, 5.625-36. Trans. Geoffrey W. Bromiley. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Bond, Helen K. 1998 Pontius Pilate in History and Interpretation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Camery-Hoggatt, Jerry 1992 Irony in Mark's Gospel: Text and Subtext. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Culpepper, R. Alan
1983
Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel: A Study in Lterary Design.
Philadelphia: Fortress. Dostoyevsky, Fyodor 1958 [1879] "Rebellion." The Brothers Karamazov. Trans. David Magarshack. Harmondsworth: Penguin. [Book 5, chapter 41 Feagin, Glyndle M., Jr. 1997 Irony and the Kingdom in Mark: A Literary-Critica! Study. Lewiston: Edwin Mellen. Owttanclli, Cristiano 1987 "Kingship in the Ancient Mediterranean World." In Mircea Eliade (ed.-in-chiet), The Encyclopedia of Religion, 8.317-22. New York: Macmillan. Gutbrod, Walter 1965 [1938] '" IapcdiA." In Friedrich and Kittel, Theological Dictionary of
the New Testament, 3.356-91. Hutcheon, Linda
1994
Irony's Edge: The Theory and Politics of Irony. London: Routledge.
Richardson, Peter
1996
Herod: King of the Jews and Friend of the Romans. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press. Rousseau, JohnJ. and Rami Arav "Crucifixion." InJesus and His World: An Archeological and Cultural 1995 Dictionary, 74-78. Minneapolis: Fortress.
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Sabbatucci, Dario 1987 "Mortification." In Eliade, The Encyclopedia of Religion, 10.113-15. Sanders, E. P. 1985 Jesus and Judaism. Philadelphia: Fortress. Stahlin, O. [1969] ".Ulttw." In Friedrich and Kittel, Theological Dictionary of the 1972
New Testament, 8.260-69.
12 ON THE RELATION OF TEXT AND ARTIFACT: SOME CAUTIONARY TALES JAMES D.
O.
DUNN
When I first received the invitation to contribute to Peter Richardson's Festschrift and was asked to incorporate both text and artifact if possible, I was somewhat despondent. The term "artifact" in this context obviously belongs within the discipline of archaeology, and my knowledge of biblical archaeology is very modest and almost entirely derivative, apart from several fairly casual visits to various sites in the land of Israel. But since our friendship spans more than one-third of a century and dates from my own earliest fumblings in New Testament research, I could not let this opportunity pass without adding at least some pennyworth to a much deserved and very welcomed Festschrift. Since, however, I have neither the honouree's own facility in another subject, like architecture, nor a subject to hand that necessarily involves interaction between text and artifact, for which his own splendid volume on Herod provides something of a model (Richardson 1996), I can only offer a few reflections on the difficulties in relating text and artifact, as illustrated by the few studies I have read that posed the issue for me most sharply. As an initial observation, it is interesting and instructive to note that most of the discussion on text and artifact for the earliest period of Christianity is about the relation of earliest Christianity to its originating Jewish matrix. Christianity as a distinctive, archaeologically attested entity takes a relatively long time to appear. The debate is more on whether or to what extent archaeological evidence can be interpreted in the light of textual testimony as attestation of Christianity's presence or as testimony to the character of Christianity, and particularly whether archaeological finds most easily identified as Jewish tell us anything about the Christianity attested for these sites or areas by textual evidence.
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1. Cases Some cases, particularly from the western Diaspora but also from the land of Israel itself, help illustrate and clarify the point.
1.1 Rome An obvious first example is the establishment of Christianity in Rome, obscure as it is in Christian tradition. It is the epigraphic testimony to a strong Jewish settlement in Rome, linked with allusions in Suetonius and Tacitus, not to mention Acts 28 and Paul's letter to Rome, that immensely strengthens the probability that Christianity's first foundations in Rome were laid within the Jewish groups and the several synagogues for which we have epigraphic evidence. I Another example is the light shed by prosopography on the list of names in Romans 16. It is precisely the epigraphic attestation of names that enables us to speculate on the social and ethnic composition of the Christian groups indicated,2 and, for example, to conclude with confidence that the
'IuvHxv of Romans 16:7 is much more likely to be a woman ("Junia") than a man (uJunia[nuls"). On the latter, Peter Lampe notes that "Junia" is attested in lists of personal names in Rome about 250 times, while uJunias" is (so far) attested nowhere, neither in East nor West (1989: 139-40).3 Here archaeology has provided a correction for textual critics' patriarchalist assumptions. Rome is a special case, however, both for the extensiveness of the literature that bears upon it, and for the abundance of archaeological and epigraphic data produced over the last century or so. If we could not find examples of interrelation of text and artifact for Rome we would have to give up the game as lost. Elsewhere in the western Diaspora it is a more difficult task to correlate data scattered over a much wider area and period, and texts often hard to lac a te in time or place with any great precision. The most difficult tests for the challenge of relating text and artifact come elsewhere.
See particularly the careful use made of both textual and epigraphic evidence by Lampe (1989); for the evidence of up to fourteen separate (synagogue) communities see pp. 367-
68. 2 Already in Lightfoot (1878: 173-77). 3 He does note, however, that a longer version ("] unianus") is attested for Rome twenty-one times.
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1.2 Sardis Two examples come from Thomas KraabeJ, especially on and arising out of his work on the synagogue in Sardis-one of the most referred-to unpublished pieces of research in recent decades. 4 Kraabel himself poses the question arising from the finds at Sardis: "What results when excavations suddenly supply a context, a 'social location' for ancient religious texts!" (Overman and MacLennan 1992: 197-207). The text in particular he has in mind is the strongly polemical, anti-Jewish Peri Pascha, by Melito of Sardis, which was itself published only in 1940 (Bonner 1940). The interest arises from the fact that the archaeological excavations have revealed a Jewish synagogue, occupying "a choice location in the centre of the Roman city ... by far the largest yet discovered anywhere in the ancient world" (197). This indicates that the Jews in Sardis were a powerful and influential group, numbering several members of the city council, people of substance, holding economic and social power, and including political leaders (205). If then the archaeological evidence suggests the context, the "social location" within which a text like Melito's Peri Pascha should be read, the consequence for a historical reading of Peri Pascha could be far reaching. In particular, any suggestion that the Christians were the dominant group, with the Jews a despised minority cowering in the back streets of Sardis, is certainly destroyed. On the contrary, it would seem to be far more likely that the Christians were the despised and threatened group, and that Melito, precisely because the Jewish community was so powerful, felt it necessary to defend Christianity by resorting to such strong polemic (see especially MacLennan 1990: 89-116). In other words, "it seems likely that there is a social-political motivation, more than a theological one, in Melito's attack" (Overman and MacLennan 1992: 206). The problem is, however, that Melito and the relevant archaeological evidence are separated by at least a century-Melito no later than the last third of the second century, the traceable synagogue no earlier than the last third of the third century. As Judith Lieu notes: "Too much happened in that period
4 Kraabel has also drawn on this research in several unpublished papers. See Overman and MacLennan (1992: 359-61), and that volume in general for the publication of several of Kraabel's studies.
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195
to ignore; the example is a salutary reminder of the caprice of survival, and a warning against broader generalisations" (1996: 8; cf. 184, 207). At the same time, it would be unfortunate if a particular case of overinterpretation, wholly understandable in the circumstances given the close conjunction of two new sets of data,5 resulted in a wider sense of disillusion regarding the possibility of correlating text and artifact. The revision of older views of western Diaspora Judaism, obscured by lack of clearly datable and locatable texts, and bedevilled by old prejudices, but made necessary by the increasing illumination provided by archaeological and epigraphic evidence, particularly in Asia Minor, has been a major feature of the last few decades (Kraabel, in Overman and MacLennan 1992: 119-30; Trebilco 1991; Wilson
1995: 20-25, and 253 re: Melito). What should not be lost to sight particularly is the evidence that many-perhaps most-Jewish communities were well integrated into the cities where they settled. Of course the period spread of the artifactual evidence (often several centuries) requires that correlation with particular texts must be undertaken with great caution. But a broader social context informed by archaeology and epigraphy is certainly a huge advance on gaps filled by guesswork and prejudice.
1.3 Godfearers A second example from Kraabel illustrates the other side of the problem-the overcautious unwillingness of the archaeologist to draw on textual evidence without corroboration from artifacts. The case in point is his famous (notorious?) 1981 essay, "The Disappearance of the 'God-Fearers'" (Overman and MacLennan 1992: 119.30). In it Kraabel notes that the evidence for "Godfearers" has been "overwhelmingly literary" (Acts and isolated references from classical literature and inscriptions). In contrast, "the synagogue inscriptions[by thenl over 100 of them-never use the term phoboumenos or sebomenos. Theosebes appears perhaps ten times, but as an adjective describing Jews, usually Jewish donors." He continues (121; cf. 123): There are no other references in the inscriptions which would suggest the presence ofinterested but non-converted Gentiles in the buildings in which
5 The publication of the Peri Pascha (1940) was followed a little over twenty years later by the first publications from the Sardis excavations (1962).
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
the inscriptions were placed. If we had only the synagogue inscriptions as evidence, there would be nothing to suggest that such a thing as a Godfearer had ever existed. This evidence prompts Kraabel to a fresh examination of the older literary evidence, particularly Acts, from which he concludes that the "God-fearers" are in effect a Lukan contrivance, part of what he describes elsewhere as Luke's "theological history." One of the most interesting features of this particular argument by Kraabel was that even while he was producing it, archaeology had indeed turned up a long inscription (1976) which provided just the sort of evidence he was demanding. This is the now famous Aphrodisias inscription, obviously Jewish, engraved on two faces of a block of marble. which seems to have been positioned at the entrance to a synagogue-a typical means of honouring donors (in this case for a bUilding project). On the second face (dated to the third century) appears the heading, Kal.
000\ eEO(JEpE(~
("as many as [arel
theosebeis") , followed by the names of fifty-two individuals. Most of these are Greco-Roman names, and, most significant for present purposes, the first nine people listed among these eEOOEpE{~ are also described as city councillors (PouAEU1:at). The most obvious conclusion is that those named were Gentiles who were not afraid or ashamed to declare publicly their sympathy for the Jews and some degree of identification with the synagogue of Aphrodisias (see Reynolds and Tannenbaum 1987; Trebilco 1991: 152-66; Levinskaya 1996:
70-80, with a critique of Kraabel's position, 57-58, and a review of the earlier more ambiguous epigraphic evidence, 59-70). This confirms the main finding ofKraabel's own work at Sardis that Jews in the cities of Asia Minor were held in high regard within the cities where their forebears had settled. But, contrary to Kraabel, the most obvious deduction regarding 8EOO€p€iC; is that it
functions, in this inscription at least, as a technical term for Gentile sympathizers with Judaism, as "God-fearers," we might well say, using the term which the usage of Acts has made more customary.6
6 The consensus is that the Aphrodisias inscription has settled the old debate as to whether there was a distinct class of "God-fearers" or theosebeis, with a strong affirmative answer. See van der Horst 1991: 71; and Feldman 1993: 367. Trebilco (1991: 164-66) thinks that the Aphrodisias inscription tips the balance in favour of reading some at least of the ambiguous other inscriptions as evidence for Gentile God-worshippers in Asia Minor. But
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In this case Kraabel has a justifiable excuse. He was writing prior to the publication of the Aphrodisias inscription (1987). Knowing of its imminent appearance he was able to refer to it in later essays, but felt able to dismiss its significance as indicating nothing more than Gentile "good neighbourliness," a suggestion rcnd~rcd quite inadequate in the light of the full details (Overman and Maclennan 1992: 35-59; Kraabel and Maclennan 1992). What is less acceptable, however, is that Kraabel had more or less ignored a good range of other textual evidence already well known, evidence which surely confirmed that in the ancient Mediterranean world there were indeed many Gentiles who sympathized with Judaism. We may mention simply the well-attested phenomenon of"judaizing" (only Gentiles "judaize"!), Josephus's testimony to widespread Gentile adoption of Jewish customs (War 7.45; Ant. 3.318-19;
Apion 2.123, 282) and the degree to which (Gentile) judaizers had become "mixed up" with the Jewish communities of Syria (War 2.462-63), and Juvenal's description of how (evidently not untypically) the son of a sabbathobserving, God-worshipping, pork-avoiding father goes on to become a proselyte (Sat. 14.96-106).7 Here. then, was dearly a case where the textual evidence ought to have been sufficient to confirm that there was a widespread perception among both Jews and Gentiles that many non-Jews were attracted to Judaism, and were involved in varying degrees in Jewish observances and festivals, including, inevitably, the local synagogue. Whether there was a technical or widely recognized term for such Gentiles ("God-fearers," "God-worshippers" or whatever) is a minor aspect of the issue. When the textual evidence was so clear, the perceived lack of artifactual confirmation should not have been given the weight that it received.
1.4 Colossae Another test case has been the long-running debate about Jewish syncretism in Asia Minor. Here again the lack of textual evidence allowed a wide range of
Levinskaya (1996: 76-77) remains cautious: "The inscription testifies that the relationship of the God-fearers to the Jewish community was close but there we have to stop." 7 See further Dunn (1990: 129-74; here 144-50); Trebilco (1991: 145-52); Feldman (1993: 344-58); and Hengel and Schwemer (1997: 61-70). Feldman (1993: 370-82) lists thirtyone factors that may have attracted non-Jews to become "sympathizers" with Judaism.
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speculation to thrive on the basis of some diverse epigraphic evidence. The most striking cases were Franz Cumont's argument that eEOC; UW1.o"t"OC; used of the deity Sabazius by Jews indicated a syncretistic fusion of Yahweh and Sabazius cults, also linked to the idea that angel worship was well established in Asia Minor (1929: 99-103), and Martin Dibelius's argument, on the basis of inscriptions at the site of the sanctuary of Apollo at Klaros, that ellPa"t"Euwv in Colossians 2: 18 was drawn from the language of the mysteries and was indeed a technical term for initiation to a mystery cult (1973: 61-121). In recent years the tide of opinion seems to have been running in the opposite direction. Cumont's speculations have been seriously questioned by a sequence of scholars (Kraabel, in Overman and Maclennan 1992: 237-55; Sheppard 1980-81: 508-36; TrebiIco 1991: 127 -44; Mitchell 1993: 2.46): some usage may indicate a Jewish element within a syncretistic non-Jewish (pagan) mix, but evidence of what may properly be called}ewish syncretism is lacking. And Dibelius's assumption that EIlP(UEUWV is necessarily a technical term has to be questioned in the light of its wider usage in the sense of "enter" (Francis 1973; Dunn 1996: 182-84). The issue, however, has been posed afresh by Clinton Arnold, who provides in effect another classic case of interpreting obscure or disputed text by artifactual evidence. What results is another cautionary tale of overinterpretation of the artifactual evidence while more directly relevant textual evidence is ignored. B The case in point is the religious situation in Colossae which was in view when the letter to the Colossians was written. 9 Arnold's central thesis is that the phrase "worship of angels" (Col 2: 18), which has puzzled generations ofcommentators, "refers essentially to a magical invocation of angels, especially for apotropaic purposes" (Arnold 1995: 10). On the positive side Arnold is able to demonstrate that a veneration of angels took place in the context of magic, that the angels of Judaism played a significant role in Jewish magic, and that there was invocation of angels in Asia Minor. The gathering of data here is most useful and impressive. On the negative side, however, Arnold reaches his conclusion that Colossians 2: 18 "represents the practice of invoking angels for protection, help, and 8 Contrast particularly J. T. Sanders (1993), who sees his task precisely as bringing literary and material evidence together (here, on Colossae, 189-200). 9 It is a matter of frustration that the site of Colossae itself remains unexcavated.
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deliverance" (103) before he has begun to look at Colossians itself-a puzzling and disturbing step for any exegete to take. Moreover, as so often with the tour de force, the developing argument makes several crucial transitions without sufficient care-from "invocation" to "veneration" (it begs more than one question to assume that Col 2: 18 refers to the former), from private devotion/superstition (amulets) to worship publicly approbated, from evidence gleaned from a single synagogue (Dura Europos) to the Colossian synagogue in the first century, from late (magical) texts to first-century practice (but he disallows similarly late Hekhaloth texts), from uninformed and unsympathetic accusation (cf. Juvenal) to affirmation and, most question-begging of all, from a syncretism that incorporates Jewish elements to "Jewish syncretism.,,10 More disquieting is the selective use of evidence from Colossians. Little or no attention is paid to the clear implication that Colossians lays claim to the categories ofJewish identity (particularly 1: 12; 2: 13; 3: 12), or to the fact that the points at issue are characteristically Jewish concerns and indeed central to Jewish distinctive self-understanding-circumcision (Col 2: 11 is not the only reference), food and purity laws and festivals (the shadow of what was to come}-or to the Jewish character of the clear parallels in Galatians (not least the a"tolXEla and festivals). Arnold nowhere seems to ask the significance of the talk of "disqualification" in what he sees to be the key passage (2:18). But given the above evidence, the obvious answer is that the Colossian Jewish synagogue regarded the Gentile Colossian believers as disqualified from the Jewish heritage to which they laid claim (for elaboration see Dunn 1996). Here is a case where text and artifact might be said to pull in different directions. The point is, however, that the tension between them can be resolved, if at all, only by setting out and considering all the evidence. What is unsatisfactory about Arnold's procedure is his failure to put together all the data of the last two paragraphs, and his readiness to jump too quickly from the broader context as he perceives it to the particularities of a text analyzed without proper regard to its context.
10 For recent cautions about use ofthe tenn "syncretism," how it might relate to alternatives like "accommodation" and "assimilation," and what it might mean in reference to a Diaspora Jew loyal to Judaism, see Levinskaya (1996: 197-203); Feldman (1993: 65-69); and Barclay (1996: esp. 119-23). It is worth recalling that an incantation against demons has been discovered even among the Qumran scrolls (4Q560).
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1.5 Ossuaries, Mikwaot and Synagogues When we turn to the land of Israel itself the situation is only partly analogous. Jerusalem is not quite as helpful as Rome, since the devastation ofJerusalem following the two Jewish revolts greatly reduced the range of artifacts that might otherwise have been expected. I I Outside Jerusalem, however, Qumran apart, we have the similar problem oflots of artlfactual evidence but too little text that can be directly associated with a particular site. Nevertheless one can point, for imtance, to notable artifacts like the Pilate inscription from Caesarea, the warnings against Gentile infringement of the Temple balustrade, and the evidence of the mode of crucifixion, whose discovery has given a sudden concreteness to what previously had been only text clothed by imagination as instructed by pious legend or iconography and art. Notable also has been the confirmation of the amazing building achievements of Herod (see Richardson 1996). Ossuaries have been particularly fruitful. The growth of the practice during the Herodian period (gathering the bones of the deceased a year after burial and putting them in an ossuary, or bone-box) strengthens the view that hope for a physical resurrection (cf. Ezek 37:7 -14) became firmly established during that period. And the discovery that a substantial proportion of the inscriptions on ossuaries found in and around Jerusalem were written in Greek confirms that Greek was much more widely used by Jews in the first-century period than had previously been thought (see Hengel 1989: 10-11). The climax has been the recent discovery of the Caiaphas ossuary found in a tomb between Jerusalem and Bethlehem. The discovery of Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls deserves a full discussion on its own. It must suffice here to note the exquisite irony that this case provides for our theme: the abundance of texts evidently related to the site in some way, but now rendering more obscure the clearer picture that some thought to draw in the earlier years, before so many of the texts had been published; the archaeological evidence just sufficiently ambiguous to allow seriously divergent reconstructions of the residents and the time span of occupation. This one will run and run.
1 I I recall questioning Professor Avigad in the 1970s and the salutary shock when he pointed out that the accuracy of models of first-century Jerusalem could be no more than a few percent.
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Less commented on but perhaps more striking in terms of a broader appreciation of Jewish religious practice has been the discovery of so many ritual baths (mikwaot) in different parts of Israel, including upper Jerusalem, Jericho, Sepphoris, Qumran, Masada and in all of Herod's palaces (E. P. Sanders 1990: 214-27). Here is unlooked-for confirmation that the practice of ritual purity was a matter of widespread concern and presumably not only among priests. A major subject of interest and dispute has been the evidence of the presence of synagogues in the first century. Indeed, this is probably the case above all others where the archaeological evidence has forced scholars to examine the relevant texts with greater care. The old idea that the beginnings of the synagogue (understood as a building set aside for prayer and reading of Torah) could be dated back to the Babylonian exile had long suffered from lack of supportive archaeological evidence. But thirty years ago there was conndent talk of first-century synagogues being identified at Masada, Herodium and Gam!a (Levine 1981). Add the famous Theodotus inscription, honouring one Theodotus for building a synagogue in Jerusalem, and assigned by Gustav Adolf Deissmann to a pre-70 date (Deissmann 1927: 439-41; also Kee 1990: 7-8), and the interlock with the references to "synagogues" in the New Testament seemed to have been established. Subsequently, however, these identifications and datings have come under heavy fire and the growing revised consensus is (1) that there is no evidence for architecturally distinct synagogues in firstcentury Palestine, and (2) that while in the Diaspora the term ouvaywytl had begun to refer to a building, it usually referred to a "gathering" or "assembly" (see esp. Kee 1990; 1994; 1995). When one adds this to E. P. Sanders's strong argument that auveopwv should be translated something like "court" or "council" rather than the "Sanhedrin" (1992: 472-88), it is impossible for one's impression of late Second Temple Judaism based on traditional translations of the gospels and Acts to remain unaffected.
1.6 Sepphoris The final cautionary tale focusses, unsurprisingly, on Sepphoris, capital of Lower Galilee during Jesus' youth, and only an hour's walk from Nazareth, Jesus' home town. Such bare facts made it almost inevitable that the excavations at Sepphoris (from the mid-1980s) would be watched with keen
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interest to see what light, if any, they might shed on Jesus the Galilean and on the accounts ofJesus' Galilean ministry. Given that Sepphoris was the Roman administrative capital and boasted a substantial theatre, it was not difficult to envisage a city of Hellenistic culture and sophistication. Add the fact that Josephus reports it as being burned by the Romans when they put down the insurrection that followed the death of Herod in 4 BCE (War 2.68; Ant. 17.28889), and that substantial rebuilding must therefore have been in hand throughout Jesus' youth, and it is easy to conjure up scenes of the young carpenter from Nazareth busy on the construction of the new theatre. 12 Add further the speculation that a widespread Greek philosophy like Cynicism must have flourished in such a place, and the stage is set for an elaborate hypothesis ofCynic influence pervading Jesus' teaching (Downing 1988; Mack 1993; both highlighted by Horsley 1996). The fact that the gospels say nothing at all of Jesus having any involvement with Sepphoris, and, if anything, imply that he avoided the other local Hellenistic city (Tiberias), has evidently posed little problem: artifact was beginning to fill one of the gaps left by text. In a recent thorough review of the archaeological data, however, Richard Horsley has put all such speculation under serious question. With his own characteristic approach, he repeatedly emphasizes (1996: 57 -60) the importance of setting both texts and material finds within the context of the social life of the region, and warns against "essentialism" which works with broad categories like "Jewish" and "Hellenistic" as though they were precise enough to elucidate the structure and dynamics of concrete social life. In particular he notes that the degree of cosmopolitanization of Sepphoris and Tiberias ("a thin veneer of cosmopolitan culture") and their influence on surrounding villages can be overexaggerated ("it seems likely that reaction and resistance outweighed assimilation and acculturation,,).13 And on trade he points out that self-suffiCiency would have been the norm for villages (the model of the market economy should not be superimposed on the evidence), with only limited social interaction between
12 Batey (1991) is to be commended for his restraint. See also the portrayal of Galilean culture by Crossan (1991: 18-19). 13 Among other points, Horsley also notes that excavations at Scpphoris have as yet unearthed no clear evidence of massive destruction during the period, that the populations ofSepphoris and Tiberias have been greatly exaggerated-in reality probably under 10,000 each--and that Sepphoris was strongly pro-Roman during the revolt of 66-67 (1996: 32,
44·45,54).
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cities and villages. In consequence, the currently popular hypothesis of a flourishing Cynic philosophy in the Galilee of Jesus, and of Jesus as u a Cyniclike countercultural sage in the midst of a cosmopolitan Hellenistic culture in Lower Galilee," is rendered highly improbable (1996: 59, 204 n.36). The picture that emerges from Horsley's analysis has its own idiosyncrasies, but it certainly makes better sense of the silences of the gospels.
2. Conclusion The conclusion that emerges is hardly new, and all those mentioned in the above case studies would no doubt affirm for themselves that any apparent or claimed correlation (positive or negative) of text and artifact can never be taken for granted, and must be rigorously scrutinized---on and from both sides. But principle and practice are often at odds with each other. The original sin of any specialism is the desire/lust to explain as much of the relevant data by and v.ithin the terms of its own discipline, and to leave as little as possible for other disciplines to explain. The above cautionary tales are a reminder that the partnership between archaeologist and literary critic is delicate enough. It does not need to be further strained by such imperialistic urges.
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References Arnold, Clinton E.
1995
The Colossian Syncretism: The Interface Between Christianity and Folk Belief in Colossae. Tubingen: Mohr.
Barclay, John M. G.
1996
Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora From Alexander to Trajan (323 BeE-I17 eE). Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. Batey, Richard A. 1991 Jesus and the Forgotten City: New Light on Sepphoris and the Urban World of Jesus. Grand Rapids: Baker. Bonner, Campbell, ed.
1940
The Homily on the Passion by Melito Bishop of Sardis and Some Fragments of the Apocryphal Ezekiel. LondonlPhiladelphia:
Chris top hers. Crossan, John Dominic
1991
The Historical]esus: The Life of a Mediterranean Jewish Peasant. San Francisco: HarperCollins.
Cumont, Franz
us
1929 religions orientales dans Ie paganisme romain. Paris: Leroux. Deissmann, Gustav Adolf 1927 [1909) Light from the Ancient East: The New Testament Illustrated by Recently Discovered Texts of the Graeco-Roman Work!. Rev. ed. trans. Lionel R. M. Strachan. New York: Harper and Brothers. Dibelius, Martin 1973 "The Isis Initiation in Apuleius and Related Initiatory Rites." In Fred O. Francis and Wayne A. Meeks, Conflict at Colossae: A Problem in the Interpretation of Early Christianity, 61-121. Missoula: Scholars Press. Downing, F. Gerald 1988
Christ and the Cynics: Jesus and Other Radical Preachers in FirstCentury Tradition. Sheffield: J50T Press. Dunn, James D. G. 1990 "The Incident at Antioch (Gal. 2.11-18)." In James D. G. Dunn, Jesus, Paul, and the Law: Studies in Mark and Galatians, 129-74. Louisville: WestminsterfJohn Knox.
1996
The Epistles
to
Eerdmans. Feldman, Louis H. 1993 Jew and Gentile
the Colossians and to Philemon. Grand Rapids:
In the Ancient World: Attitudes and Interactions from Alexander to Justinian. Princeton: P(inceton University Press.
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Francis, Fred O. 1973 "The Background of EMBATEUEIN (Col. 2: 18) in Legal Papyri and Oracle Inscriptions." In Francis and Meeks, Conflict at Colossae: A Problem in the Interpretation of Early Christianity, 197-207. Hengel, Martin (with Christoph Markschies) 1989 The "Hellenization" ofJudaea in the First Century After Christ. London: SCM. Hengel, Martin and Anna Maria Schwemer 1997 Paul Between Damascus and Antioch. London: SCM. Horsley, Richard A. 1996 Archaeology, History, and Society in Galilee: The Social Context ofJesus and the Rabbis. VaHey Forge: Trinity Press International. Kee, Howard Clark 1990 "The Transformation of the Synagogue after 70 C.E.: Its Import for Early Christianity." New Testament Studies 36: 1-24. 1994 "The Changing Meaning of Synagogue: A Response to Richard Oster." New Testament Studies 40: 281-83. 1995 "Defining the First-Century CE Synagogue: Problems and Progress." New Testament Studies 41: 481-500. Kraabel, A. Thomas and Robert S. Maclennan 1992 [1986] 'The God-Fearers - A Literary and Theological Invention." In Overman and Maclennan, Diaspora Jews and Judaism: Essays in Honor of, and in Dialogue with, A. Thomas Kraabel, 131-52. Lampe, Peter 1989 [1987] Die sradtromischen Christen in den ersten beidenlahrhunderten: Untersuchungen zur Sozialgeschichte. Second ed. Tiibingen: Mohr. Levine, Lee 1., ed. 1981 Ancient Synagogues Revealed. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society. Levinskaya, Irina 1996 The Book of Acts in Its First Century Setting, Vol. 5: The Book of Acts in Its Diaspora Setting. Grand Rapids/Carlisle: Eerdmansl Paternoster. Lieu, Judith 1996 Image and Reality: The Jews in the World of the Christians in the Second Century. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. Lightfoot, ]. B. 1878 [1868] St. Paul's Epistle to the Philippians. Fourth ed. London: Macmillan. Mack, Burton L. 1993 The Lost Gospel: The Book of Q and Christian Origins. San Francisco: HarperCollins.
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MacLennan, Robert S.
1990
Early Christian Texts on Jews and Judaism. Atlanta: Scholars Press.
Mitchell, Stephen
1993
Anatolia: Land, Men, and Gods in Asia Minor. 2 vols. Oxford/New
York: Clarendon/Oxford University Press. Overman, J. Andrew and Robert S. MacLennan 1992 DiasporaJews and Judaism: Essays in Honor of, and in Dialogue with, A. Thoma., Kraabel. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Reynolds, Joyce M. and Robert Tannenbaum
1987
Jews and God-Fearers at Aphrodisias: Greek Inscriptions with Commentary. Cambridge: Cambridge Philological Society.
Richardson, Peter 1996 Herod: King of the Jews and Friend of the Romans. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press. Sanders, E. P. 1990 Jewish Law from Jesus to the Mishnah: Five Studies. LondonlPhiladelphia: SCMfTrinity Press International. 1992 Judaism: Practice and Belief, 63 BCE-66 CEo London: SCM. Sanders, Jack T. Schismatics, Sectarians, Dissidents, Deviants: The First One Hundred 1993 Years of Jewish-Christian Relations. London: SCM. Sheppard, A. R. R. 1980-81 "Pagan Cults of Angels in Roman Asia Minor." Talanta 12-13: 50836. Trebilco, Paul R. 1991 Jewish Communities in Asia Minor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Van der Horst, Pieter W.
1991
Ancient Jewish Epitaphs: An Introductory Survey of a Millennium of Jewish Funerary Epigraphy (300 BCE - 700 CE). Kampen: Kok Pharos.
Wilson, Stephen G.
1995
Related Strangers: Jews and Christians 70-170 c.E. Minneapolis: Fortress.
PART THREE
TEXT AND ARTIFACT IN THE WORLD OF CHRISTIAN ORIGINS
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13
PHYSIOTHERAPY OF FEMININITY IN THE ACTS OF THECLA WILUBRAUN
Paul apparently laid down a reconstituted charter for gender equality with his claim that in the Christ associations "there is neither male nor female, for ... all are one in Christ Jesus" (Gal 3:28; d. 2 Clem. 12: 1-6). But, as Dennis MacDonald has pointed out, one ought here to pay close attention to the gender of the one. The Greek masculine Etc;, rather than the gender -neutral ev, expresses the gender quality of the Pauline one. That is, the Pauline avop6yuvot;;-if that is how we would think of the "one"-neither levels gender hierarchy nor erases the value distinction between male and female. Rather, if the Galatian gender-unification formula reflects an androgynous ideal at all, it suggests that the female will be subsumed within a human ideal that has a masculated form. MacDonald notes that "the androgyne myth is not antiquity's answer to androcentrism; it is but one manifestation of it." Androgyny "is reconstituted masculinity: the female must become male" (MacDonald 1988: 285, correctly criticizing Meeks 1973).1
The avopoyuvoC; is not a term that occurs in Galatians. Indeed, the language of androgyny may not be appropriate to describe Christian attempts to imagine a reconstitution of redeemed humanity in de- or re-gendered terms. There is good evidence to think that to be labelled androgynos was considered an opprobrium, a slur for someone "who is between mall and woman" (qui inter virum est etfeminam, Andre 1981: 396). This was recogni.ed in some Christian circles where androgyny is not "a redemptive condition," bur "an imperfect state, because it represents the absence of clear gender distinctions" (Castelli 1988: 365; see also R. Smith 1988) and thus the confusion of categories. See also, for example, Pollux's list of reproachful terms synonymous with andrngynos (Onomasticon 6.126-27). The Greco-Roman physiognomists delight in stories about the arulrogynos as a way of exploring the bizarre extremes of "normal" female-male parameters (Gleason 1995: 39-40). What Lucian said about eunuchs seems to represent a dominant thinking also about androgynes: "[TJhey are neither man nor woman ... but hybrids [ouv6E't'ov], mixtures [1-1 \1(10V]. monstrous freaks [1EPO:1WOEC;] outside the bounds ofhurnan nature" (Eunuch 3; LCL 6) . For cross-cuI tural analogies see O'Flaherty (1980) and Roscoe (1996).
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In post-Pauline Christian groups manliness (virtu virile or avop€(a) would come into its own as a preached value and performance, enjoined by early Christian men and not infrequently pursued by women themselves. The idea of the masculinization of the female in Christian salvation myths comes to repeated expression in the so-called gnostic tradition where salvation is envisioned as a return to "the unchangeable unborn state" (Zostrianus 130.24, in Robinson 1988) of male perfection: "Flee from the madness and the hondage of femininity, and choose for yourselves the salvation of masculinity" (Zostrianus 131.5-9). The aim is not to set rules for a men's club that bars women; rather, femaleness "is something that can enslave everyone, and its opposite, masculinity, does not appear to be a natural quality of males but a state that all must seek in order to be saved" (Wisse 1988: 301). Similar injunctions to flee from the horror of femininity toward the redemption of masculinity are scattered across other gnostic writings (see R. Smith 1988; Wisse 1988; generally, the essays in King 1988), often describing the therapy of humanity's gynopathology in fantasies, myths and metaphors of a phallic big bang: "Gnostics are trapped in a woman's parts and rescue comes down out of the sky as a logos-penis-snake with its potent and perfecting semen of salvation" (R. Smith 1988: 358; cf. Castelli 1988: 366). The famous sayings in the Gospel of Thomas are not exceptional in that they advocate erasure of gender dimorphism in the "single one" (22); not, however, by blending male and female into an androgynous one (Castelli 1991: 30-33) but, as the muchdiscussed saying 114 has it (Buckley 1985; Meyer 1985), by "becoming male" (cf. Gospel of Mary; Hennecke 1965: 1.342). This notion that the company of the transformed, including its women members, must become wholly male is not limited, however, to gnostic circles. The "works of the female" appear elsewhere as a feared sign of unredeemed creation and humanity (Clement, Strom. 3.6.45.3; 3.9.63.1-2; citing the encratite Gospel of the Egyptians). Clement of Alexandria, whose ideas of femininity and masculinity appear to be thoroughly steeped in dominant Greek cultural traditions within whose scope he attempts to make some allowance for female achievement of philosophic virtues (Irwin 1994), nonetheless accepts an androcentric measure of humanity in suggesting that women put off their feminine flesh, which limits "the knowledge of those who are spiritual." Although "souls" are neither male nor female in Clement's view, he does
PHYSIOTHERAPY OF FEMININITY
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suggest that the soul will have its day after marriage ceases, when the perfection of the soul will emerge in manliness and "woman [will be 1translated into a man" (Strom. 6.12.100). Working with a masculated notion of piety, Christian writers throughout the first few centuries grudgingly admire women who transcend their femaleness and become, as Palladius says, "more like men than nature would seem to allow" (Historica Lausiaca, Intro. 5; cited by Cloke 1995: 214). The same writer, speaking of Melania the Elder, compliments her with the epithet i] av8pw1toC; 'tou awu, strikingly combining a masculine noun with a feminine article, perhaps best translated as "the female man of God" (Cloke 1995: 214). Other writers, such as Tertullian, famous for his shuddering paranoia when it came to femaleness, could promise women as a reward "the self-same sex as man" (On the Apparel of Women 1.2). Similar sentiments of admiration and applause for the manly woman are expressed by many other Christian writers, including Gregory of Nyssa, Gregory of Nazianzus, John Chrysostom, Augustine and Jerome (Miles 1989: 53-77; Cloke 1995: 214-16). As ideals of monasticism and monastic institutions imposed themselves with increasing force in late antiquity and pre-modern Europe, monastic theory did allow the robust, celibate female considerable room in the superior moral spaces of pious masculinity of which the male monk was the normative embodiment (McNamara 1994: 6).
1. Thecla's Achievement of Manly Piety by Bodily Reform If the marks of Christian commitment and piety were frequently, if not normatively, measured in properties of maleness, one would naturally expect some Christian women to "seek wisdom like men" (Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 8.1.275). The options for women's pursuit of Christian piety "like men" varied in real life, but the variation was not so much along a sliding scale connecting the poles of femininity and masculinity, as it was in different ways of negotiating the complex and tricky connections between a robust, manly subjectivity and the female body. That is, risking "an exaggeration in the Smith 1992: 7), the ideal of manly piety had as the direction of the truth"
a.
greatest obstacle to its pursuit affectations associated with femininity and the female body. The female body and its significations became the locus for the suppression and rejection of femininity as well as the site on which to work out
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the desire to become more manly. Hence, the pursuit of the religious life "like men" offered, on one end of a gamut of possibilities, the escape of femininity through renunciation of sex, marriage and networks of social relationships that defined woman's status and roles, and, on the other end, more proactive strategies of bodily therapy toward masculinization. The entire range, however, represents the same desire to shuck the millstone offemaleness, of "escaping the feminine via the masculine" (Cloke 1995: 214-16). That is, sexual renunciation, exemplified especially in the "virgin of God" (Elm 1994), is sponsored by and reinforces androcentrism and patriarchy and, though ostensibly disrupting both, is a symptom of, rather than salvation from, androcentrism-"chastity as autonomy" (Burrus 1987) is a coy slogan that may represent a moment of "slippage" (Castelli 1991: 47; cf. Castelli 1986) in dominant gender conventions, but not a critical blow to patriarchy's hegemony (on hegemony see Comaroff and Comaroff 1992: 28-31). What I want to do here is to dwell on one example of masculinized femininity, with some side glances at analogous literature and cultural practices, and then comment on the construction of manly femaleness with reference to ways in which Greco-Roman cultures thought of and fashioned bodies as "ideograms" (Brown 1990: 490) for the true-always gendered-self. The example concerns the Thecla narrative contained in the apocryphal Acts
of Paul (Greek text in Upsius 1972: 235-72; citations refer to section numbers in Hennecke 1965: 2.353-64). The Acts of Thecla records the story of a wellborn young woman who, upon listening to Paul preach on the blessedness of "the bodies of virgins" (6), renounces her engagement to a leading Iconian aristocrat, Thamyris, and her family for an ascetic missionary life that will end up in a situation of martyrdom from which she is miraculously delivered. Thecla became the matronymic warrant for female ascetics and martyrs (Castelli 1990: 268), indeed, a versatile "mouthpiece" for many of the church fathers' orthodoxies (pes thy 1996). My intention here, however, is not to survey how Thecla was fondled by later Christian bishops, but to stay within the story itself and propose that it presents Thecla's conversion as a process of altering her "gender temperature" (Gleason 1990: 392). This is a story of transformation from female to male by means of an "incorporating practice" (Connerton 1989: 72-104) which effects a therapy of the malady offemininity that allows one to re-corporate oneself and establish a manly
e~u;,
a bodily
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state indicative of a being-condition as produced by incorporational practice, which we take as the individual counterpart to Pierre Bourdieu's notion of the social habitus. In Bourdieu's terms; L'hexis corporelle est la mythologie politique realisee, incorporee, devenue disposition permanente, maniere durable de se tenir, de parler, de marcher, et, par/a, de sentir et de penser. (1980: 117; also 1998: 71) And, in Talal Asad's elaboration of Bourdieu's point: The human body is . . . the self-developable means for a range of human objects-from styles of physical movement (for example, walking), through modes of emotional being (for example, composure), to kinds of spiritual expression (for example, mystical states). (1997: 47-48) The story reI1dcr~ the tran~[ormation ofTheda from ferninint: to masculine in three interlinked movements. First, Thecla is introduced expectedly and familiarly in terms of her proprietary relationship to men, a relationship that cedes to men custodial rights over women and assumes that the latter are transferable property (Braun 1995: 76-78). Her fiance Thamyris refers to her as "my Thecla" (8) and her mother likewise acknowledges that she (contractually) belongs to Thamyris-hence "thy Thecla" (9). Her conversion breaks this proprietary relationship and in due course her independence from men is stressed. On her journey to Antioch Paul corrects a mistaken impression that she belongs to him by saying "she is not mine" (26). Stereotypically male sexual possession moves are forcefully resisted by Thecla, most dramatically when she publicly humiliates the prominent Antiochene townsman, Alexander (26). Of course, the story does insinuate that Thecla's desire to follow Paul is motivated by a romantic, perhaps erotic, interest in Paul (40), but this topas of the romance novel is not exploited in such a way that it counters the plot of Thecla's masculinization. Paul does not baptize her-the story clearly describes autobaptism (34, 40). She carries on missionary work independent of Paul and earns his respect as a colleague in the evangelistic enterprise (41). Thecla becomes her own "man," so to speak, and, though fondly linked to Paul, she does not work under his sponsorship or command. Second, she crosses over the spatial boundaries that separated the sexes in Mediterranean antiquity (see Pomeroy 1975: 79,84; Gould 1980; Burrus 1987:
68,89). Initially the story depicts her in terms of her pre-married virginal status
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and as someone, therefore, who is excluded from the andreian (men's room) of the family house so that she must eavesdrop from a window on Paul's instructions (7-9). As Virginia Burrus notes (1987: 89), Thecla's "stationary location inside the house" is a point of some emphasis in the story, and the fact that she must use stealth to sneak away at night to visit Paul, by now in prison for his dangerous subversion of the normal marriage rules, is marked as a transgression which, when discovered, leads to public outrage and Thecla's need to flee. In due course, however, she moves from the traditional female habitat of the household into the public (read: male) sphere and engages ably in the very male sports of challenge and riposte (26, 3 7), and gladiatorial combat (27-36). The combat is depicted by means of the tapas of the "fight with the beasts," common in martyrologies and other popular narratives where it usually serves the "rescue from danger" theme (MacDonald 1983: 22-23). Such is the case here too, but "the friendly lion" signals more: of interest is the narrator's remark that a lioness, trained to kill, becomes Thecla's protector and partnerin-arms against other voracious beasts (33). In the Greco-Roman physiognomic handbooks animals were used as an important analogy in gender identification and separation. According to Pseudo-Aristotle and other physiognomic theorists, the lion exhibits the male type in its most perfect form (Ps.-Aristotle,
Phgn. 809b). Later writers provide lengthy lists of the manly traits of the lion, analogically transferable to the ideal male human being: "of freeborn temperament, fiery, restrained, intelligent, kingly, a natural leader, statesmanlike, proud" (Vettius Valens; cited by Gleason 1990: 405 n.60). The Roman physiognomist, Polemo of Laodicea (88-145 CE), further specifies that the lion is the exemplar of a species in which masculine qualities predominate in both males and females (Forster 1893: 1.194-98). That is, the lioness is an exemplar of masculinity despite being anatomically feminine (Gleason 1990: 405; 1995: 28-29; Cox Miller 1994: 198). Taking a measure of permission from the popularity of the physiognomic art of taking the body as a semiotic chart of gender identity, a popularity, expressed both in the visual and in the literary arts, that reached its height in the second century (Evans 1941; 1969; Krien 1955; Opeku 1979; Mason 1984; Kiilerich 1988; Raina 1989; Moxnes 1997: 271-72}-whose framer evidently knew well the physiognomic conventions of the time (Bo1l6k 1996; Bremmer 1996: 38-39}-we might take the story's
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215
depiction of the kinship between the lioness and Thecla as a symbolic transfer by literary means of the manly qualities from the one to the other. Theda becomes a leonine human being. This move from the domestic privacy of woman's space to the public arena of man's space is further secured when, upon her successful combat against the animals, she becomes the leader of a retinue that includes an unspecified number of males (40). When she does finally return home (42-43), she is in all respects the opposite of the person who initially left the house. Indeed, as Johannes Vorster notes, upon her return to the family home "Thecla fulfills the role of a man by supporting her mother" (Vorster 1995: 12). Third, the story indirectly assumes, in a manner typical of ancient romance novels (Petropoulos 1995), that Thecla embodies the ideals of seductive feminine beauty when it notes that a leading man of Antioch takes her for a courtesan and falls in love with her. Not only does she decisively rebuff the male advance, but she takes measures to efface her beauty: she cuts off her hair (25). This is a gesture full of physiognomic Significance that can be appreciated with a reference to a remark in Pseudo-Athanasius's Ufe of Syncletica (fifth century CE). where the female saint asked an elder to witness her discarding all her
cosmetics and cutting off her own hair as a symbolic renunciation of a cosmologically and naturally required sign of female adornment (Castelli 1990: 271; cf. Castelli 1986: 76). Thecla then further annihilates the image of the beautiful female by means of a gesture of transvestism: "[S]he sewed her chiton into a cloak after the fashion of men" (40). The usual interpretation of this scene of transvestism goes back at least as far as the fifth century CE (Anson 1974: 3) and considers this not as an act of gender-crossing but as a disguise for reasons of safety on the road or convenience of travelling attire (McGinn 1994: 828), or as a surface-level "travesty" to prevent suspicion that her motives for following Paul might be "of a sexual nature" (Bremmer 1996: 45), or, somewhat more plausibly, as the donning of a "habit" that "served symbolically to dissuade men from initiating sexual advances" (Davies 1986: 104). In this case, however, these interpretations miss what is more fundamental: the story itself resists the notion of disguise as a protective measure, for Thecla is not travelling alone but in the company of followers (40) who provide the protection that single travelling women might normally seek. Nor ought one too quickly to pass over the transvestism motif as
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an innocuous adoption of the Hagnodice legend in which a woman took on male disguise to enter the aU-male Athenian medical college and eventually forced the Athenians to open the medical profession to free-born women (Grant 1960; 176; cf. MacDonald 1983: 18~21)-a modem version of the legend best played out by Barbra Stteisand as the "male" rabbinical student in the film Yend. Although not denying that the Thecla story is an exemplar of the courageous woman who covertly enters the forbidden male domain with subversive intent, I am inclined to take it as more than that We should rather take the notice of transvestiture as a symbolic indicator that Theda has entered not only spatial and social spheres of maleness, but also the bodily dimension of maleness. Or, as John Anson has correctly seen, "sexual disguise . . • signalized and effected a tran.sfonnation of self, the birth of a new identity, not only in the name of Christ but in the body as wen" (1974: 11). In contrast to what was perhaps the dominant tendency of female Christian asceticism, where "maleness" was "projected inwards" so that no "male qualities may find an external expression" (Elm 1994: ix; see also Chadwick 1968: 121; Miles 1989: 53), Thecla's body is both an important locus and manifestation of her conversion. Her manly vestiture signals her conversion to "the male norm," the "metamorphosis of a woman into a man," as Robert Doran rightly notes (1995: 149). Such a view certainly is in keeping with ancient physiognomic arguments that each class of creature is marked by natural and stable semeia. as Aristotle calls them in his Physiognomies. by which to judge character, including gender (physical appearance), bodily gestures and vestiture, to mention just some of the signs (Evans 1969; Gleason 1990; see further below). In sum, Theda's conversion entails a ttansformed self~definition and public persona in which femininity increasingly fades out to reveal a masculinized self. The metamorphosis takes her from male custody and control to manly independence, from the womanly space of the household enclosure to the public arenas of male discourse and politics, from female bodiliness to male bodiliness. Side-glancing for a moment, female quests for the ideal of manly piety by means of transvestism and other incorporations of male physicalities are a frequent literary topos in the hagiographies of female saints (Delcourt 1961; Anson 1974; Patlagean 1976; Brock and Harvey 1987: Z4~25; Vogt 1995; Ahbott 1999: 71-79). To what degree a literary motif can be taken as evidence
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217
of social practice is a tricky decision. Fortunately we have some documentary evidence which indicates that female practices of sexual disguise out of desire for masculinization were carried on with enough frequency to warrant conciliar anathemas and prohibitive legislation. In the fourth century the Council of Gangra in Asia Minor convened to condemn female tonsure and cross-dressing practised by the followers of Eustathius of Sebaste-see especially canons 13 and 17 of the Council of Gangra (Yarbrough 1990: 453). The later Theodosian code (12.2.17) similarly prohibits female tonsure, suggesting that the forbidden practice was carried on (Vogt 1995: 147). Jerome expresses disdain for women who "change their garb and assume the mien of men, being ashamed of being what they were born to be: women. They cut off their hair and are not ashamed to look like eunuchs" (Ep. 22). The dismantling of femininity as a strategy for achieving Christian "holiness" thus should be regarded not merely as an idealist wish expressed as a literary motif in Christian hagiography, but as women's actual incorporation (materialization) of andreic desires.
2. Greco-Roman Bodies and Characters A look into the Greco-Roman theories and values concerning the interrelated issues of character, gender and bodies should provide us with perspective from which to appreciate Thecla and the manly woman type that she represents. Virtue, excellence and other qualities by which to measure the human being along an axis of perfection-imperfection were not unisex-that is, equally attainable in male and female bodies-in Mediterranean antiquity. Excellence of character was bound to class, often also to ethnicity, and certainly to gender. Aristotle's argument (Pol. 1277b20-23) that the highest possible level offemale virtue does not exceed the level of mediocrity of male virtue generally reflects the dominant Greco-Roman gender ideology. Thomas Laqueur summarizes the sensibilities behind this view: "[M]an is the measure of all things, and woman does not exist as an ontologically distinct category" (1990: 62). The philosophical tradition, especially the Aristotelian and Stoic trajectories, provided the metaphysical theory which the biological and medical scientists confirmed with their detailed analysis of human physiology: woman was an imperfect or incomplete male (Hanson 1990; Martin 1995: 3-37; Brown 1988: passim), a tradition that also found its proponents within early Christianity (e.g., Clement, Paed. 3.3). Laqueur demonstrates that, according to ancient thinkers
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from Aristotle to the Hippocratics,
to
Galen and Soranus, the operative theory
of human sexuality was not based on the modern (post-Enlightenment) "twosex" model of male-female "dimorphism" or "biological divergence," where a stress on "an anatomy and physiology of incommensurability" (Laqueur 1990: 6) has laid the ground for an anthropology in which man and woman are distinct categories of human being. Rather, the ancient belief that man is the measure of the human and the concomitant notion that "the standard of the human body and its representations is the male body" (Laqueur 1990: 62) were based on a theory of monosexuality-Laqueur calls it the "one-sex" model-"in which men and women were arrayed according to their degree of metaphysical perfection, their vital heat, along an axis whose telos was male" (Laqueur 1990: 5-6). Human bodies thus were not understood in terms of an unbridgeable dichotomy between male and female but in terms of a continuum running between poles of masculinity and femininity; each body contains both male and female aspects and "every human body, male or female, occupies some position on the spectrum male-female" (Martin 1995; 33). In theory, then, the "one-sex" model of human being would seem to make possible the masculinization of the female just as it was possible to mould men to achieve greater levels of maleness (Galen, Despenn. 1; Rousselle 1992: 328; Gleason 1990: 402-406). But the theory runs squarely against another dimension of ancient gender ideology: the hierarchy of the male-female continuum and the problem of female physiology which set firm limits on masculinity. Female bodies, according to Hippocratic philosophical-medical theories, lacked the needed levels of dryness, heat, activeness, strength and solidity to achieve a male level of masculinity (Lloyd 1964). Although there was not complete agreement among the ancient physiologists on exactly how to take measure of a person's level of maleness or femaleness by means of temperature, humours and density of body mass, they were agreed that women's inferiority is firmly and "naturally" fixed, in one way or another, in the material apparatus of the body (Martin 1995: 32). Female physiology thus was the trap of women who aspired to andreic heights of virtue and excellence, in either philosophy or Christian piety. Greco-Roman physiognomic science, which has
to
do with the art of
interpreting character from physiology and bodily characteristics, sheds some light on this. The basic principle behind the science is stated by Pseudo-
PHYSIOTHERAPY OF FEMININITY
219
Aristotle in his Physiognomonika where he argues that a person's inner character and dispositions (ot(xV01(n) follow bodily characteristics (,oie; oWj.Laat) and, conversely, that bodily characteristics and affectations appear in harmony with the affectations of the soul (l\TuXtl). Thus "in the creations of nature ... one can see how body and soul interact with each other" (805a). "It seems to me that soul and body react on each other; when the character of the soul changes, it changes also the form of the body, and conversely, when the form of the body changes, it changes the character of the soul" (S08b). This work thus contends that there is evidence of "some identity" (oj.Loia) between inner character and outer bodyscape, an identity that makes it possible to draw "inferences from human surfaces to human depths" (Gleason 1990: 389). To aid the art of body-reading, physiognomic practitioners produced handbooks (Forster 1893 j Andre 1981) that elaborate the theory and prescribe guidelines for deciphering true character from physiological "signs" and bodily surfaces (Armstrong 1958; Barton 1994: 95-131; Cox Miller 1994: 196-99; Evans 1941 j 1969; Gleason 1990; 1995). Physiognomics also presented "itself as a tool for decoding the signs of gender" (Gleason 1990: 390-92). The second-century physiognomist Polemo states the basic idea: You may obtain physiognomic signs of masculinity and femininity from your subject's glance, movement and voice. Then, taking these signs, compare one with another until you are able to satisfy yourself on which of the twO sexes prevails. For in the masculine something feminine will be found, and in the feminine something masculine, but the designation "masculine" or "feminine" should be used in accordance with which of the two [sexes] prevails. (Polemo, Physiog. 2; Forster 1893: 1.192) Not only does Polemo take for granted that maleness and femaleness are not exclusively located in anatomical males and females, but he assumes that it is possible to decipher the predominant gender type in any person, male or female. He goes on to restate these two assumptions and to relate, with evident reliance on Pseudo-Aristotle (Phgn. 809b-810a), a detailed list of the "signs" by which to tell the ditterencc (Polemo, Physiog. 2; Forster 1893: 1.192-94). What we have here, in effect, is a recipe for body-building and bodydecipherment that is of course entirely committed to the ideology of androcentrism. The entire structure of the physiognomies is built on the
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principle of opposites and contrasts in order to layout a spectrum of body types in which the opposite poles are brilliantly evident. The positive type is beautiful, balanced, well proportioned, solid, strong, majestically poised-the leonine male. The negative type is unattractive, unbalanced, ill proportioned, flabby, weak, of shifty pose-the pantherine effeminate type most clearly displayed in female shape and bearing. The location of bodies on the physiognomic spectrum corresponds to their embodiments of core Mediterranean values of virtue, honour and nobility, just as body types correspond to a person's location on the social and political spectrum of power and influence. On this spectrum a range of "blessings" (education, rationality, virtue) that qualified people to be custodians (saviours) of the state (Dio Chrysostom, Orat. 32.3) was firmly associated with the masculine ideal (Moxnes 1997: 273), just as both the literary and iconographic records indicate that the ideal of femininity was associated with "indoor" virtues such as demure modesty, guarding private morality in the domestic sphere and generally desisting from any provocative public displays (HoubyNielsen 1997: 224; generally, Turner 1996: 120-21,133-34). Bodies thus are not merely an image of society, as Marcel Mauss (1979) and Mary Douglas (1970: 93-112) suggest; nor are they a blank slate on which ideological values are etched for social show. Bodies, rather, are a modality by which ideology becomes material and body-being is both representational and generative of subjectivity in social situ, as recent revisionist meditations on the complex reciprocal interactions between body-self, gendered subjective self and the wider body politic show (for example, Scheper-Hughes and Lock 1987; Connerton 1989: 72-104; McGuire 1990; Comaroff and Comaroff 1992: 69-91; Lock 1993; Asad 1997; Turner 1996; 1997; Warne 2000). In ancient Mediterranean societies (as in all societies) bodies do not merely behave ideologically or symbolize the values of the body politic; they are ideological constructs, and body-selves and body practices both express and affect beliefs and compliance with those beliefs (Althusser 1994: 127-28; Zizek 1994: 1213). Bodies thus "matter" much more profoundly than we are used to thinking (Butler 1993: 31-36). Greco-Romans knew this, and the physiognomies are reflective of and in collusion with all aspects of cultural discourse that sought to shape its bodies in theoretical conception, fashion their development by means of the educational system, maintain and control them by rhetorical force
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PHYSIOTHERAPY OF FEMININITY
of praise or blame, and let them loose in public practices and displays that then, boomerang-fashion, generated the ideological foundation for those very same body-cultivating procedures. A culture that places such a heavy burden of value on masculinity and so carefully constructs its bodies to display masculinity generates both motive and pressure for "physiognomical deception" (Gleason 1990: 406}-that is, for manipulating and managing one's semiotic bodyscape as a way of concealing or obscuring female physiognomic traits and as a means of evading negative public judgments about oneself. Ancient observers were well aware of the physiognomic impostors (Gleason 1990: 406-11), the dissimulators who were able to conceal their "true character" by assiduously practised deception (studia
et conversationes satis humana ingenia obscurant; Forster 1893: 2.144; Dio Chrysostom, Orat. 33.53-54; Diogenes Laertius 7.173). Conversely, practising and projecting those traits that would lead the public assembly of body-readers to infer the character one wished or thought oneself
to
be was a common
technique, practised especially by the rhetoricians (Evans 1969: 39-46; Martin 1995: 35), but also by sophists (Gleason 1995) and specialists in various divining arts (Barton 1994). The logic behind this would seem to sponsor female tonsure and other gestures of male impersonation. In a culture that judges kind and quality of (gendered) character from its physiological cover one would expect females with aspirations to manliness to fashion theif exterior surface into an "ideogram" of the man inside. 3. Proto-Feminist Hero or Artifact of Gynophobic Ideology (or Both)? This brings us back to Thecla. We are entitled to ask: Should Thecla, standing in for other Christian female "men of God," be regarded as an example of heroic femaleness, as a proto-feminist "transvestite virgin with a cause" (Petropoulos 1995)? Or should she be viewed as someone whose masculinized self-identity as indicated by her manly physiognomic gestures is perhaps a pathetic result of an efficient, coercive androcentric cultural force, the product of a misogynist-ideological sex-change operation? Or both? A sample opinion poll of recent commentators on the Thecla story indicates that Thecla tends to be seen as a heroic example of women's liberation from patriarchal constraints. For Rosemary Ruether, Thecla is "an audacious role model for sweeping disobedience to the established order offamily and state" (1979: 75).
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Virginia Burrus considers Thecla among the "heroic and defiant foresisters," a rare example to "us" that early Christianity was not exclusively a "man's affair" {1987: 108-1O9}. Dennis MacDonald calls her "the archetypal liberated Christian woman" (1988: 291; cf. 1983: 53). For Johannes Vorster she is an emblem of "alternate personhood" in which "the androcentric component of the person" has been dismantled and replaced by a personhood that asserts "the power of womanhood" (1995: 11-12). It is not difficult to accept the language of heroism, archetype and liberation-the early Christian female man of God was heroic all right. Nor am I disapproving of citing foremothers (even some forefathers) to authorize one's own present desires; a self-serving appeal to ancestors and history is a deep motive in most, if not all, historiographies (Braun 1999: 8). Encomiums of Thecla therefore are not inappropriate, but they are also not all that interesting, if the aim and end of an analysis of the Thecla narrative are to claim her for "us" or against "them." If my reading of Thecla as a female-to-male conversion story is plausible. she takes flight from femininity so that masculinity and all the positive values attached to masculinity would "prevail," to use Polemo's term. Her aspiration to masculine piety, requiring disguise if not erasure of femininity, would seem to be a testament to the power of androcentric ideology which generally kept women in their place by the full force of a web of efficient (dis)placement devices. The forceful and determined Theclas of early Christianity who managed to upstage the culturally required gender script by staging a transgressional gender act (see Halberstam 1998 on an analogous modern phenomenon) did succeed in crashing the male club, but their determined
agency only reinvigorated the rules of the dominant game in town. Thecla's heroism thus can be understood as an attempt at therapeutic agency that is at the same time a symptom of the structural malady of an ideology that would not accommodate femaleness. The very tough and interesting question posed by Thecla and her many named and unnamed equivalents is how we will understand the social power relations that permit an emancipatory women's agency-Stevan Davies's (1986) argument that the Thecla story is part of a cycle of narratives that is expressive and generative of a "revolt of the widows" is entirely plausible-that regenerated and reinscribed a Christian culture which David Noble (1992) has described with only a little exaggeration as "a world without women." Or, to state the mam::r in the form of a question, what
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are the social and material conditions, and the operational dynamics of ideology, that make it possible to regress into the same ideology which Thecla (or any of us) sought to transgress (Zizek 1994: 13)?2
2 In appreciation of Peter Richardson, from whom I have learned that historical material traces are a good way to chase down historical ideas. I trust he will nm object to my view that human bodies and body-building belong among his rightly valued realia of history. Thanks to my friends Claire Grogan, Cynthia Fish, Darlene Juschka and Randi Warne, who read this essay and helped to improve it.
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Hanson, Ann Ellis 1990 "The Medical Writers' Woman." In Halperin et al., Before SexuaUty: The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World, 309-37. Hennecke, Edgar 1965 The New Testament Apocrypha. 2 vols. Ed. WilhelmSchneemelcher; trans. R. MeL. Wilson. Philadelphia: Westminster. Houby-Nielsen, Sanne 1997 "Grave Gifts, Women, and Conventional Values in Hellenistic Athens." In Per Bilde, T roels Engberg-Pedersen, Lise Hannestad and Jan Zahle (eds.), Conventional Values of the Hellenistic Greeks, 220-62. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. Irwin, Eleanor M. 1994 "Clement of Alexandria: Instructions on How Women Should Live." In Wendy E. Heileman (ed.), Hellenization Revisited: Shaping a Christian Response Within the Greco-Roman World, 395-407. New York: University Press of America. Kiilerieh, Bente "Physiognomies and the Iconography of Alexander." Symbolae 1988 Osloenses 63: 5-28. King, Karen L., ed. 1988 Images of the Feminine in Gnosticism. Philadelphia: Fortress. Kricn, G. 1955 "Der Ausdruck clef antiken Theatermasken nach Angaben im Pollux-Katalog und in der pseudo-aristotelischen Physiognomik." Jahreshefte. Osterreichisches archaologisches Institut, 84-117. Laqueur, Thomas W. 1990 Making Sex; Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Lipsius, Richard A. 1972 [1891] Acta Apostolorum Apocrypha. Hildesheim/New York: Olms. Lloyd, G. E. R. 1964 "The Hot and the Cold, the Dry and the Wet in Greek Philosophy." Journal of Hellenic Studies 84: 92-106. Lock, Margaret M. 1993 "Cultivating the Body: Anthropology and Epistemologies of Bodily Practice and Knowledge." Annual Reviewo!Anthropology 22: 133-55. MacDonald, Dennis Ronald 1983 The Legend and the Apostle: The Battle for Paul in Story and Canon. Philadelphia: Westminster. 1988 "Corinthian Veils and Gnostic Androgynes." In King, Images of the Feminine in Gnosticism, 276-96.
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29: 283-96. McNamara, Jo Ann 1994 "The Herrenfrage: The Restructuring of the Gender System, 10501150." In Clare A. Lees (ed.), Medieval Masculinities: Regarding Men in the Middle Ages, 3-29. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Meeks, Wayne A. 1973 "The Image of the Androgyne: Some Uses of a Symbol in Earliest Christianity." History of Religions 13: 165-208. Meyer, Marvin W. 1985 "Making Mary Male: The Categories of 'Male' and 'Female' in the Gospel of Thomas." New Testament Studies 31: 554-70. Miles, Margaret R.
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14
SEX AND THE SINGLE GOD: CELIBACY AS SOCIAL DEVIANCY IN THE ROMAN PERIOD! CALYIN
J. ROETZEL
Mediterranean cultures knew well how precariously close to extinction they lived and how profoundly survival depended on procreation. Bruce Frier's study offers credible data vis-a.-vis the challenge of just maintaining a steady-state population. In Rome, he argues, the average life expectancy at birth was between nineteen and twenty-three years and the mean age of reproduction was twenty-eight years. He estimates the infant mortality rate at 466.9 per thousand, and notes that survival to fifty years of age was rare. Such a society, he suggests, was "highly vulnerable not only to cultural or societal influences promoting spinsterhood or diminished reproduction among adult women but also to practices such as female infanticide" (Frier 1982: 248-50). The balance was so precarious that events like war or famine or celibate movements could trigger a population crisis. In optimal circumstances every woman reaching the age of fifteen would have to bear between five and six children just to maintain a steady-state population (see Frier 1982: 248-50). The work of the Hungarian demographers Gyorgy Acsadi and
J.
Nemeskeri supports Frier's thesis and
extends its relevance. They argue that Roman "mortality characteristics do not differ substantially from those of the ... Bronze Age" (1970: 216-17 j see also Humbert 1972). What was true of Rome in the first century, therefore, was apparently true of the whole of the Mediterranean world for over a millennium previously (see Treggiari 1991). If these observations are correct, then we can better understand the political and societal pressures to propagate, and why philosophical convictions
I am privileged indeed to share in this effort to honour Peter Richardson, a creative mind, a provocative scholar, a witty interlocutor, a devoted student of the Roman period and a great human being.
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on propagation assumed such extreme ideological positions. Of course the rhetoric was never as crass as the statistics suggest but most often cloaked itself in sophisticated philosophical garb. 2 That rhetoric necessarily must frame any discussion of celibacy.
1. Duty of Procreation in the Greek and Hellenistic Worlds The Greek and Hellenistic models that informed the Roman strategy of survival through propagation are venerable. From the time of Plato to the death of Alexander philosophers linked the future of the polis to fertility rates. Writing on the heels of the devastating Peloponnesian War Plato (ca. 429-347 BeE) and Aristotle (384-322 BeE) both saw marriage as the institution most crucial to the survival of the polis. 3 Dissenters, like Theophrastus and Parmenian, viewed marriage as a "necessary evil" but a distraction from philosophy (Stob. 4.527.5-7), butthe Stoic, Antipater of Tarsus (second century BCE), viewed the family as an integral part of the cosmic, divine order and as a foundation piece of the polis. He shared the general view that the family was more ancient than the city since the polis was composed of family groups. The third century BeE brought a sense of extreme urgency to the Stoic position. Over a century of social and political upheaval, famine, civil war, institutional erosion and economic depression led to a devastating population decline in Greece. Mikhail Rostovtzeff categorically, and quite correctly, rejected Tarn's thesis that the population decrease was confined to citizens of the polis and was compensated for by the increase. allowed in the number of slaves, freedmen and foreign immigrants. 4 The crisis was general, it was extreme and it threatened the survival of the Hellenistic culture. This crisis profoundly influenced the Stoics as they wrestled with theodicy issues. Their position is well known and needs no rehearsal here. Yet, worth emphasizing was the way the Stoics located the family within a context of
2 The late, revered David Daube once argued quite plausibly that the concept of the "duty" to procreate came into Judaism and Christianity from "heathen" politics (1977: 1). 3 Rep. 5.449a-465c. Plato did, however, recognize the need for cities not to reproduce beyond their means "lest they fall into poverty or war" (Rep. 369b). Bowersock (1965: 3334,39-41) simply restates Aristotle's views that man and woman coming together to procreate created the first community, which becomes the basis of community life. 4 Rostovtzeff (1964: 3.1465) notes that Polybius (36.17.5) says the depopulation was for the whole of Greece. See Tarn (1930: 91-98).
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divine reason and cosmic order. The family, they held, was the primal human institution, divinely ordained, which served the polis, a crucial building block in the divine order, through procreation (Xenophon, Ocellus 7.19). Ocellus, a second-century Stoic, lays a heavy burden of responsibility on the citizen to replace those whom death snatches from either the household or the city-state. He states unequivocally that sexual intercourse is not "for the sake of pleasure but the everlasting continuation of the people," and he adds that if the male "does not wish to be a deserter either of the ancestral hearth of his household, or the altar of his city-state, or, indeed, the altar of God" he will replace "each person who departs these institutions" ("On the Nature of the Universe," 45). This moral duty and the divine mandate to procreate when viewed in a crisis situation assume cosmic significance. The Stoic position did not go unchallenged. Many Cynics asserted their right to pursue philosophy without the distractions of wife and children, which, they claimed, aggravate human weaknesses (Wimbush 1990: 127). They also claimed the fitness of assuming a cosmopolitan status that transcends any obligation to the polis. The Cynic contempt for the general "uninformed" human lot, which was no more worthy of concern than insects, freed them as liberated and self-sufficient human beings for the undistracted pursuit of philosophy. Through asceticism the Cynics aimed to shatter the bondage of the normative culture in order to secure their own autonomy and freedom. Although their antisocial behaviour offended many, they nevertheless forced the more influential Stoics to refine and modify their philosophical support of . . 5 marnage and procreatIOn. The Cynics were hardly alone in their rejection of the Stoic position. They were joined by the Neo-Pythagoreans and Orphics. Nevertheless, the early Stoic position on marriage and the family was the dominant influence in shaping and rationalizing official Roman policy.
2. Attempts to Legislate Procreation in Imperial Rome For centuries Roman policy makers had worried about depopulation, but in the late Republic a number of factors intervened to aggravate population losses and
5 Deming (1995) offers a useful survey of CyniC and Stoic attitudes toward marriage and
celibacy.
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to inspire radical reforms to reverse the trend. Mounting war casualties heightened concerns. Horace reports that the civil wars of the late Republic claimed 80,000 lives (Carm. saee. 20). In addition, Augustus's unwise decision to prohibit soldiers of the rank and file from marrying kept large numbers of men who were in their prime years (18-34) from assuming family obligations and fathering children (Schulz 1951: 113). Moreover, many of the Roman nobility deliberately avoided marriage to enhance their economic situation. Celibacy among the unmarried, and childlessness among the married through birth control, abortion and infanticide, P. A. Brunt suggests, worsened the population decline (Brunt 1971: 560, 565). Keith Hopkins argues that, even without these realities, the population crisis of the Augustan period would have been significant, but with them the decline among the upper classes was very disruptive (Hopkins 1965; Raditsa 1980: 289). In the face of these conditions the future leadership for both the army and the imperial bureaucracy was jeopardized Oonkers 1946: 285-96). Anxieties raised by these conditions fanned the flames of xenophobia. Tacitus expressed alarm that Rome was losing the baby wars to the Jews and heathen tribes. He disparaged the Jews as "base and abominable" creatures who "take thought to increase their numbers" and have a passion for "begetting children" (Hist. 5.5). And while he romanticized the Germanic tribes who take no thought to "limit the number of their children" (Germ. 19-20) he also feared them. By contrast he scorned the childless rich in Rome (Germ. 20). However specious the threat, Dio Cassius also shared Tacitus's fear of prolific hordes from the provinces overrunning Rome (Hist. 56.7.5). The anxiety was so pronounced in imperial circles that Augustus initiated a series of radical reforms to increase the birth rate of the nobility. His reform legislation first introduced in 28 BeE wilted under a hail of criticism in the Senate and was temporarily abandoned. But after a series of military triumphs and political successes Augustus resubmitted his legislation in 18 BeE to the Tribal Assembly instead of the Senate. Thus he associated himself with the plebs whom he glorified as hard-working, virile, prolific progenitors of children (Syme 1939: 303-24; Frank 1975). The assumption clearly was thut the more traditional peasants who were quite critical of the sumptuous lifestyle of the Roman upper classes would support his policies (Frank 1975: 42-45). His gamble paid off; he found the endorsemem he needed which he leveraged to "persuade" the Senate.
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Suetonius wrote that Augustus "read entire volumes to the Senate and called the attention of the people to them by proclamations; for example the speeches of Quintus Metellus 'On Increasing the Family'" (Aug. 89.2). The basic terms of Augustus's reforms were that all men between twentyfive and sixty years of age and all women between twenty and fifty were required to marry. Widowed or divorced men and women "were expected to remarry" with alacrity (Frank 1975: 44). The divorced had six months and the widowed only one year to remarry. Only freeborn with three children and freedmen and women with four children were exempt from this requirement, and those failing to procreate saw their rights to inherit diminish. The survivor of a childless marriage could inherit only half of an estate; the unmarried enjoyed no right at all to inherit. Any property bequeathed contrary to the laws was expropriated for the public treasury. Moreover, those with three or more children enjoyed special preferences in securing political or bureaucratic appointments (Frank 1975: 45-48). In addition, all property left to a childless man under sixty years of age was expropriated by the state (Brunt 1971: 78). Augustus also closed loopholes in the law. Freedmen and women whose patrons or guardians forced them to swear not to marry were allowed to break their oaths (Brunt 1971: 65). He made it illegal to forbid children to marry or to withhold dowries or to fail to look for a match (Digest ofJustinian 37.14.6.4). And he allowed engaged couples to cohabit and propagate. He increased the reward for those bearing children and differentiated between the severity of the penalty imposed on the childless and the unmarried. He also extended the time allowed to remarry for divorcees and widows by six months. Criticisms of these legislative reforms brought modifications but not revocation. Augustus gained divine sanction for these reforms in 12 BeE when he was installed as Pontifex Maximus. In assuming the role as leader of the pontifical college and head of the state religion Augustus effectively united the authority of the imperium with the power of the priestly office with its esoteric religious knowledge. This union was of extraordinary importance. As Mary Beard notes, this "is a new world; official religious authority had for the first time a single human face-{)fficial religious power was clearly defined and located" (1990: 48). This combination gave imperial law and imperial utterances a religious character and divine authority. While the basic premise of Augustus's reforms was that marriage and procreation were a civic duty, now they became a religious
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obligation. But the fact that the law was necessary suggests that celibacy and childlessness were hardly rare or uncommon (so also Brunt 1971: 560). While Roman officials had historically been instruments of public policy, in the time of Augustus they played a crucial role in enforcing the reforms. The censor, an influential and powerful public official, was pressed into service to promote Augustus's legislative reforms. Cicero's description of the role of the censor is an apt one for Augustus's time: Censors shall make a list of the citizens and record their ages, families, and slaves and other property. They shall have charge of the temples, streets, and aqueducts within the city, and of the public treasury and the revenues. They shall make a division of the citizens into tribes, and other divisions according to wealth, age, and rank. They shall enrol the recruits for the cavalry and infantry; they shall prohibit celibacy; they shall regukue the morals of the people; they shall allow no one gUilty of dishonourable conduct to remain in the Senate. (Leg. 3.3.7; emphasis added) Part of the censor's job was to ask each man being counted: "Have you a wife for the purpose of breeding children?" (Sulpicius, ap. Gell. 4.3.2). The sporadic census thus made it possible to see ifhusbands and wives were having
conubium with each other (Treggiari 1991: 58). Either implicitly or explicitly the censor's questions aimed to encourage procreation, and the persistence of legends that as early as 403 BeE censors had fined bachelors for not doing their duty to the gods and the state legitimized the censor's intrusiveness centuries later. Whether the censors ever levied a "wife-tax" or simply exhorted men to marry and procreate, their role in fostering population growth is unambiguous and legendary (Treggiari 1991: 58-60). Women also experienced some of the same pressures that censors placed on males. A woman of marriageable age was under the guardianship of her father and the only way that she could escape that guardianship was through marriage. Yet at the same time women faced a grim dilemma. Should they remain under the control of a guardian, or should they marry and run a high risk of death in childbirth? Some scholars estimate that one in three of all married women died either in the birthing process or from complications or postnatal infection. This dark prospect was made even grimmer by the fact that almost all marriages were arranged at or before puberty for girls, who were thus uprooted from their home, placed in the hands
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ofa husband who was often abusive, and often ordered about by a strong-willed mother-in-law. In spite of the divine imperative Augustus proclaimed to marry and procreate, he had to make room for exceptions to the general rule. How could the celibate vestal virgins, for example, perform their duties in service of the Imperial Cult without violating the spirit of Augustus's reform legislation? To address this problem Augustus arranged for the ius tricum liberorum which made the vestal virgins fictitious parents of three children. Thus he accorded them the same rights and privileges of citizen parents with three biological children.
By imperial fiat they thus gained the right to inherit property and to enjoy all of the other rights of a biological parent. Through this clever move, Augustus gave a clear signal that the default social relationship among citizens in Rome was marriage, and that celibacy was intolerable unless rationalized and sanctioned by the state. So most women in this Roman setting would have had little control over whether to marry or not, or whether to procreate or not (Hopkins 1965). Augustus's radical legislation survived him. Succeeding emperors, the Senate and jurists issued rulings, interpretations and clarifications to create a large body of law on marriage, reproduction and property rights (Treggiari 1991: 60). While the primary aim was to encourage marriage and reproduction among the upper classes in order to supply Rome with soldiers and administrators, there was a ripple effect throughout society (60). As Brunt notes, having enough people was a "continuing preoccupation" of the leadership, and laws "aimed at improving the economic state of the poor were partly intended to encourage them to rear children" (Brunt 1971: 58). Although Augustus admired the virility and stamina of the peasants, he offered little assistance to peasant childbearing couples. While noting the linkage of state security and childbearing Pliny laments the unequal and unjust systems of support: "[T] he rich [he says 1are urged by huge rewards to raise children, but the only way for the poor to bring up children is to have a good emperor" (Pan. 26.1, 5; 27.1-2; 28.6-7). Pliny also praises Trajan for "ensuring the future
of the empire by his bounties to the poor of Rome and their little ones" (Pan. 25-28). (Pliny himself, however, married three times but left no children.) Interestingly, Brunt notes that the term proletarii suggests that at some time even the poor citizens were expected to marry and have children even though
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they received insufficient assistance (Brunt 1971: 559). So, although Augustus's reforms targeted the upper classes, the emphasis on the duty to procreate was hardly restricted to them. How successful were Augustus's reforms in creating population growth among the Roman elite! The answer is that the legislation enjoyed only limited success. Since one child entitled a person to the most useful privileges, it is unlikely that Roman women had on average the six live births necessary to maintain a steady-state population (Treggiari 1991: 404). Numerous "children scarcely ever appear in family groups in tomb inscriptions," and the names of twelve listed children are exceptional while the absence of names of any children is common (404-405). Moreover, the popularity of celibacy and childlessness during and after the time of Augustus reveals the less than total success of his policies (565). The Roman historian, Livy, a rough contemporary of Augustus, witnessed resistance to his reforms, and moaned that "we can neither endure our vices nor face the remedies needed to cure them" (Praef. 9). Moreover, the attempt to obliterate the distinction between the public and private spheres ultimately failed (Frank 1975: 50; Raditsa 1980: 330). 3. The Divine Command to "Be Fruitful and Multiply" in Jewish Tradition If the survival instinct of the powerful majority culture was pronounced, it was a perennial and deep concern of minority groups. The Jewish tradition is replete with divine legitimation of an explicit social policy of propagation. The oldest strand of the Pentateuchal narrative bears eloquent witness to the importance of childbearing. Adam heard the first commandment of scripture to "be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth" (Gen 1:28); Noah received the same command two times over (Gen 9:1,7). After the flood the sons and daughters-in-law go forth and multiply (Gen 8: 16). Jacob as well heard the command to be fruitful and multiply (Gen 35:11), and Onan who "spills his seed" rather than fulfil his levirate duty to procreate in the name of his brother is slain by Yahweh (Gen 38:6-11). Added to the praise heaped on large families as divinely blessed, and the "seed" promised to Abraham (Gen 15:6), this emphasizes the importance of procreation. Departures from this norm did occur, but rarely (e.g., Judg 13:5, 7; 16: 17 for references to Nazarites vowing lifelong celibacy). Normally, vows of holy war or Nazarite devotion and service at the altar imposed only discrete periods of celibacy. Lifelong devotion to
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celibacy was exceptionally rare and it was noteworthy simply because it was too threatening to the survival of a people to receive blanket endorsement (Roetzel 1998: 137-45). Centuries later, in urban, cosmopolitan Alexandria, Philo offered a similar reproduction politic, albeit with a strong Hellenistic tinge. He shared the Stoic emphasis on self-control (eYKpci1Ela) and the repression of all passion and desire while simultaneously recognizing the necessity of procreation (Quod det. 171). Propagation, not pleasure, according
to
Philo, was the primary purpose
of marriage (Spec. Leg. 3.13-29, 31-35; Virt. 207; Mos. 1.28; Abr. 248-49; Quaes. 4.68, etc.). Sexual excesses and unbridled desires, he believed, had
catastrophic social consequences. He pointed to the sexual perversions of Sodom and Gomorrah which led to their total destruction, and "had the Greeks and barbarians joined together in affecting such unions, city after city would have become a desert" (Abr. 136). Thus, he concludes, the violation of the laws laid down for marriage and reproduction led to human disaster. By contrast, the eschatological future he sketched will be a fecund time: "In those days all the true servants of God will fulfil the law of nature for the procreation of children .... [And] no man shall be childless and no woman barren" (Praem. 108). Through these fertile unions there "will be a plentitude with a long list of kinfolk" (109). Alongside this theme there is also in Philo an emphasis on, and strong preference for, celibacy. This ambivalence, according to Goodenough, reveals in Philo's heart a "warfare between statesman and philosopher" (1938: 83). Whereas the philosopher is an ascetic totally devoted to his philosophy, the statesman is a responsible householder providing offspring. On the one hand, Philo blends the Stoic and Jewish emphases on propagation, and on the other he reveres Moses the celibate who after his prophetic call renounced sex forever. In order to keep himself in perpetual readiness for divine revelation, after his theophany on Sinai he never again "knew" Zipporah, his wife (Mos. 2.68-69). Especially intriguing is Philo's admiration of the Therapeutae, a celibate Jewish community on the shores of Lake Mareotis. He offers an account of a cui tic celebration that brought ascetic men and women together for a ritualistic, vegetarian meal and a festival of music in which their voices, both treble and bass, blend into a highly erotic, single harmony. Let us listen to Philo's description of that incandescent moment when the cult transported
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these men and women mythically into a primordial world in which male and female merge (Cont. 88-89): [TJhe choir of the Therapeutae of either sex, note in response to note and voice to voice, the treble of the women blending with the bass of the men, create an harmonious concert, music in the truest sense. Lovely are the thoughts, lovely the words and worthy of reverence the choristers, and the end and aim of thoughts, words and choristers alike is piety. Thus they continue till dawn, drunk with this drunkenness in which there is no shame, then not with heavy heads or drowsy eyes but more alert and wakeful than when they came to the banquet, they stand with their faces and whole body turned to the east and when they see the sun rising they stretch their hands up to heaven and pray for bright days and knowledge of the truth and the power of keen Sighted thinking. In direct contradiction to Philo's earlier vision of an eschatological future in which all couples procreate, these celibate "citizens of heaven" overcome the ambiguity and division of gender, and mythically join an androgynous company of angels. Their ecstasy freed them from the limits of a social world to forge an identity that transcended the shackles of gender specificity. And this religious experience was free to assume erotic dimensions "safe from the liabilities of sex and the social restrictions of gender" (Roetzel1998: 162). In spite of this nostalgia for a lost world here so beautifully expressed, it is clear that the default position for Philo is still marriage and procreation. The sexual asceticism he embraced was merely the culmination of a life begun as a householder with wife and children, or a temporary abstention in a crisis (see
Quaes. 2.49 for an amusing account of animal celibacy on the Ark; also Fu.g. 36, 38). Here, Philo, like his Roman counterparts, cleverly integrated the exception with the general rule. While the apocalypticism of Qumran changes everything, Josephus correctly notes that, while the Essenes "disdain" marriage, they do not in principle "condemn wedlock and the propagation thereby of the race" (War 2.120-21). The presence of the skeletons of women and children in an adjacent graveyard suggests that the separation was not absolute. Moreover, the celibacy of the Qumran community was motivated in part by the eschatological crisis they imagined and by their attempt as a priestly community to keep themselves in perpetual readiness for divine-human intercourse. Thus their celibacy was strategic and provisional.
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4. Celibacy and Marriage in Paul Qumran offers some guidance for our understanding of celibacy in the early church. Paul's celibacy needs only brief mention here (for a fuller discussion see Roetzel1998: 145-51). Certainly his apocalypticism shaped his thinking about marriage and childbearing, and also that of his addressees, but their points of view diverged in important ways. First Corinthians 7 reveals a sharp disagreement between the apostle and his enthusiastic converts. For some celibacy was the divine mark of life in the Spirit. Some who were married renounced sex and embraced chastity as a sign and seal of religious status (7 :3-5). Believers were divorcing unbelievers (7: 10-11), and other charismatics renounced sex to join the company of angels and keep themselves in perpetual readiness for Spirit reception. Apparently, some sought to erase all accidental gender distinctions to enter symbolically the androgynous state of heavenly beings. Possibly they invoked the baptismal formula to legitimize their action: "{I)n Christ . . . there is neither male nor female" (Gal 3:28). This eschatological revaluation exchanged the pathos of the sensual for the ecstasy of the "new creation," and eros, the great human absolute. for the great heavenly absolute, Spirit-filled ecstasy. This eschatological revaluation turned traditional social expectations of marriage and family on their head, and offered a liberation from the iron cage of procreation. Whether Paul understood this Corinthian triumph of the transcendent as a subversion of the social order we cannot say. We can say that his qualification of the Spirit intoxication of his enthusiastic converts using an intermediate solution was de facto subversive. Married couples, he said, should each give the other her or his sexual due. Even if the obligations of marriage compromised one's alertness in this foreshortened time (7:29,31), once accepted they must be honoured. In spite of his clear preference for celibacy (7: 7), Paul refused to offer celibacy as an absolute principle or default position that was required of all believers, that removed all ambivalence from sex, or that papered over the strong powers of eros. While such an intermediate position might have created discomfort and may have later invited criticism (1 Tim 2: 12) there is no evidence that it provoked reprisals. In the second century, however, as we shall see below, when a variant of the Corinthian position became the dominant one in Syrian Christianity, it provoked fierce public reprisals.
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When the apocalyptic fever of the early church ebbed and a more prolonged future unrolled before it, propagation became an issue for some Christians as well. First Timothy notes that "woman will be saved through bearing children" (2: 15). The adoption of this bourgeois ethic may signal an early recognition that the church depended on both evangelism and propagation for survival. Likewise both Clement and Tertullian argue that a wife's function is to have children and to run the house (Strom. 3.3.71-75 and Paed. 2.83-86). In any case, the propagation rhetoric of all of these Mediterranean cultures shared one thing in common: [he invocation of a transcendent authority to establish marriage and procreation as the divine principle, indeed a divine obligation of being human. As we shall now see, this strategy would soon be challenged by Syrian Christianity. 5. Celibacy as an Absolute in Syrian Christianity
In the second century, the feverish expectancy of the parousia ofJesus ebbed and the eager anticipation of the imminent judgment waned, while sexual renunciation remained. By 150 CE the Marcionite church made celibacy a sine qua non for baptism. Once the "bath" was taken, the unmarried were to remain so and the married were to remain resolutely chaste until their last breath. In place of marriage and procreation as the fundamental principle of the social order now stood celibacy as a primary condition and requirement of the Christian life. Sexual abstinence rather than procreation was now the great absolute. The continent bodies of Christians stood astride the path of the monotonous cycle of birth and death, and the imagined future stood exactly opposite to Philo's eschaton of copulation, pregnancy and birth. All ambivalence about sex was removed in favour of a simple and straightforward renunciation. The Acts of Paul and Thecla, a canonical work of late second-century Syrian Christianity, best articulates this gospel of the virgin life. This work self-consciously presents celibacy as a blatant political protest against this world's social order. The celibacy was more than an alternative lifestyle. It was a biting culture critique. The protagonist is well chosen-she is rich, powerful, privileged, resourceful and beautiful. The "comely" Theda, betrothed to the respected, influential Thamyris ofIconium, is drawn irresistibly to Paul's gospel of the beauty of the virgin life wafting up through her window from the garden below. The beatitudes he spoke changed her life forever:
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Blessed are they who have kept the flesh pure, for they shall become a temple of God [1 Cor 3:161. Blessed are the continent, for to them will God speak [1 Cor 7:5] .... Blessed are they who have wives as if they had them not [1 Cor 7:29], for they shall inherit God .... Blessed are the bodies of the virgins, for they shall be well pleasing to God, and shall not lose the reward of their purity [1 Cor 7:381. (Meeks 1972: 199-200)
After Paul was arraigned and detained, Thecla so longed for Paul that she bribed her way out of her own house and into the jail cell where Paul was incarcerated. She spent the night with Paul in his cell receiving instruction, and was so inspired by his serene confidence in God that she kissed his fetters, rolled on the spot where he sat, renounced Thamyris her lover and, after Paul was scourged and driven from the city, she stood trial before the governor where she remained silent in sublime dignity as her mother testified against her: "Burn the lawless one" (20, emphasis added). She was sentenced by the governor to he
burned, was led away to her fate, and was bound atop a mountain of straw
and wood. With flames licking at her feet, she envisioned Paul "who has come to look after me" (21). Through divine intervention a cloudburst quenched the flames and led to her release. Once free, she sought and was reunited with Paul who at first refused her request to be commissioned as an apostle, because, he said, "thou art comely." Joining him on a mission to Antioch she received and rejected the unwelcomed overtures of Alexander, "the first of the Antiochenes" (26), and was sentenced to death for her anti-family behaviour. Facing the wild animals she flung herself into a pit of water filled with ferocious seals and thus took the "bath" (34), which was synonymous with taking a vow of celibacy for life. Convinced of her commitment Paul commissioned her, saying, "Go and teach the word of God" (41), an apostolic ordination of sorts that legitimated her gospel of the virgin life and saved her from the certain fate of marriage. Whether these highly legendary stories contain a grain of historical truth we cannot and need not say. Clearly, from the point of view of the Acts of
Thecla the vow of celibacy deviates from the social norm and is judged by the dominant culture to be anti-family, antisocial and anti-god. This rhetoric serves as a window onto a war of words, god against god, gender against gender, order against order and command against command.
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Virginia Burrus correctly notes that the "social order [in this narrative setting] is above all the order of marriage and household, in which the woman's position is well-defined and well-bounded .... [And when this] social order is threatened, the prominent citizens call upon the Roman governors to protect it" (1986: 110). Paul continues to support Thecla as she transgresses the limits of her social world and, in the words of Burrus, "is empowering and supportive, understanding, and sexually attractive" (1986: 116). These stories, as fanciful as they sound to us, nevertheless inspired resistance to a dominant culture that could hardly be faced alone. They offered models of resistance to the demands of a Hellenistic and Roman culture confident of its divine authority and unforgiving of transgressors. As Peter Brown aptly notes, in these stories Thecla appeared as "a condensed image of the individual, always threatened with annihilation, poised from birth above the menacing pressures of the world" (1988: 159). This same social inversion appears also in the Acts of Thomas, a thirdcentury Syrian writing, which sharply condemns marital sexual relationships (e.g., 12). While chastity appears as an unbounded blessing, marital sex is shameful, "a deed of corruption," "dirty and polluted pleasures" and "filthy intercourse." By contrast the chaste are blessed: "[B]lessed are the bodies of the holy (chaste) ones, which are worthy to become clean temples in which the Messiah shall live [1 Cor 6: 19]" (VMbus 1958: 70). That these two writings are hardly anomalous is proven by the work of Arthur Voobus. Drawing on a third-century baptismal liturgy rooted in an earlier period, Aphrahat, a fourth-century Syrian Christian, appropriates holy war imagery to advance the gospel of celibacy. He summons all who are afraid, all who are worried about their vineyards, all who want to marry, all who yearn for a domesticated life in their new houses, to volunteer for another struggle. For, he says, "it is for Single ones (ihidaye) that the contest calls, because they have turned their faces to what lies ahead, and do not remember what lies behind; for theiT treasures are ahead and whatever booty they gain is for themselves, and they will gain great riches" (1958: 56). An oath of singleness, according to Aphrahat, is a precondition for baptism and for participation in the eucharist. Thus the "single ones" put on the "Single One" and the "Single One" who comes from the Single God bestows unbounded joy. Through sexual abstinence the chain of singleness is forged and kept intact. This singleness was
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the quintessential expression of religious piety and life in Christi discipleship called for the renunciation of sex and clinging to the Single God who, unlike the Greek and Roman gods, was no sexual being. 6. Conclusion Why was this gospel of sex and the Single God so threatening? Was its iconoclasm the cause? Was it simply a convenient scapegoat to blame for profound social instability? Was it the antisocial behaviour of its advocates? Or was it the repudiation of a premise so sacred and even so necessary for survival that it seemed suicidal? Was it their willful disobedience to the divine command, their arrogant rejection of the divine logos, or their scandalous disregard for the posterity of God's people? Or was it their exposure of the precariousness and even fragility of "a seemingly changeless order" (Brown 1988: 64)? All of these issues may have played a role, but the more likely reason was that by renouncing marriage and procreation-the universal means peoples used to survive-and making celibacy into a moral and even divine absolute, they were not merely seeking to reverse the cycle of life and death, but were establishing celibacy, not procreation, as the default position of "the new creation." There had been celibacy in all Mediterranean cultures, but this form of celibacy was totally different. It diverged from the emergency ethic of Paul which he framed in the face of the world's denouement, an emergency ethic that commended but did not require celibacy. It departed radically from the proposal of Philo that continence was only the culmination of a full life that began with the duty of the householder to procreate. It differed from the celibacy of the vestal virgins who were integrated smoothly into the dominant propagation culture, and from that of the Roman upper class whose celibacy was a form of self-indulgence. Small wonder then that in the second century we have accounts of active and brutal persecution of those who preached the gospel of the virgin life. Celibacy as an aberration was tolerable, but celibacy as a divine principle of autonomy, equality and control, as a symhol of the recovery of a lost world that reversed the tide of mortality, was intolerable. Whether this persecution was state-sponsored or ethnically inspired we need not know. We know only that Augustus's reform legislation sought to erase the distinction between the public and private spheres and to legislate a higher fertility rate, and it failed. We know also that pressures from the more
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dominant Stoic philosophy had little influence on Cynic ascetics seeking to break free of the normative culture's fetters. We know also that the emphasis ofJudaism on the divine mandate to procreate and to secure marriage and the household as the divinely sanctioned social order did not prevent the Therapeutae or the Essenes from transgressing these well-defined boundaries. We know also that asceticism was popular enough among Jews of the second and third centuries to provoke vicious attacks from the rabbis. 6 And finally, we know that Syrian Christians in the second and third centuries largely ignored Paul's view that both marriage and celibacy were valid expressions of life in Christ (1 Cor 7:28), and chose a singleness that threatened the established order, that removed all ambiguity from gender and that placed them on the margin. This margin where they lived as social deviants they turned into a place of radical and revolutionary possibility. After all, their logic was impeccable. If one enters the "new creation" through baptism in the here and now, one's life has been brought into conformity with the holy and single, nonsexual God, so it is perverse to seek immortality through procreation.
6 The viewpoint expressed in Yeb. 63b of the Babylonian Talmud is common: "He who does not engage in procreation of the race i~ as though he sheds human hlood."
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References Acsadi, Gyorgy T. and J. Nemeskeri
1970
History of Human Life Span and Mortality. Trans. K. Balas. Budapest: Akademiai Kiad6.
Beard, Mary
1990
"Priesthood in the Roman Republic." In Mary Beard and John North (eds.), Pagan Priests, Religion and Power in the Ancient World, 19-48. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Bowersock, G. W. 1965 Augustus and the Greek World. Oxford: Clarendon. Brown, Peter
1988
Brunt, P. A. 1971
The Body and Society: Men, Women, and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity. New York: Columbia University Pre~s. Italian Manpower 225 B.C.-AD. 14. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Burrus, Virginia
1986
"Chastity and Autonomy: Women in the Stories of the Apocryphal Acts." Semeia 38: 101-17.
Daube, David
1977
The Duty of Procreation. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.
Deming, Will
1995
Paul on Marriage and Celibacy: The Hellenistic Background of 1 Corinthians 7. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Frank, Richard 1. 1975 "Augustus' Legislation on Marriage and Children." California Studies in Classical Antiquity 8: 41-52. Frier, Bruce W. 1982 "Roman Life Expectancy: Ulpian's Evidence." Harvard Studies in
Classical Philology 86: 213-51. Goodenough, Erwin R.
1938
The Politics of Philo }udaeus: Practice and Theory. New Haven: Yale University Press.
Hopkins, Keith
1965
"Contraception in the Roman Empire." Comparative Studies in Society
and History 8: 124-51. Humbert, Michel
1972
Le remarriage Giuffre.
a Rome:
Etude d'histoire juridique et sociale. Milano;
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Junkers, E. J. "A Few Reflections on the Background of Augustus' Laws to Increase the Birth-rate." In E. J. Jonkers (ed.). Symbolae van Oven. 285-96. Leiden: Brill. Meeks, Wayne A., ed. 1972 The Writings of St. Paul. New York: Norton. Raditsa. Leo Ferrero 1980 "Augustus' Legislation Concerning Marriage, Procreation, Love Affairs and Adultery." In Hildegard Temporini and Wolfgang Haase (eds.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der ramischen Welt, 2.13.278-339. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Roetzel, Calvin J. 1998 Paul: The Man and the Myth. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press. Rostovtzeff, Mikhail I. 1964 The Social and Economic History of the Hellenistic World. Oxford: Clarendon. Schulz, Fritz 1951 Classical Roman Law. Oxford: Clarendon. Syme, Ronald R. 1939 The Roman Revolution. Oxford: Clarendon. Tarn, W. W. 1930 [1927] Hellenistic Civilization. Second ed. London: Arnold. Treggiari, Susan 1991 Roman Marriage: Iusti Coniuges from the Time of Cicero to the Time of Ulpian. Oxford: Clarendon. Voobus, Arthur HIstory of Asceticism in the Syrian Orient. A Contribution to the History 1958 of Culture in the Near East, Vol. 1: The Origin of Asceticism: Early Monasticism in Persia. Louvain: Secretariat de Corpus. Wimbush, Vincent L., ed. 1990 Ascetic Behavior in Greco-Roman Antiquity: A Sourcebook. Minneapolis: Fortress.
1946
15 "GOOD LUCK ON YOUR RESURRECTION": BETH SHE'ARIM AND PAUL ON THE RESURRECTION OF THE DEAD RICHARD N. LONGENECKER
That there existed a wide diversity of opinion within Second Temple Judaism regarding the fate of the dead-particularly on matters pertaining to the two main conceptual axes of "immortality" and "resurrection"-is today axiomatic. Oscar Cullmann, while laudable in his explication of Paul, considerably oversimplified the first-century situation when he argued that Greeks held to "the immortality of the soul" whereas Jews believed in "the resurrection of the dead" (1955-56; 1958). Rather, views regarding the state of the dead were in flux, with implications and significances being variously spelled out. Nonetheless, there did develop during the first and second centuries CE certain distinctive doctrines regarding the resurrection of the dead. These I would like to highlight, citing in particular data from the tombs at Beth She'arim and the letters of Paul. L A Summation of Diverse Treatments Immortality doctrines within Second Temple Judaism were rampant, with some clothed in resurrection language, others in astral imagery, others in phraseology that parallelled ideas about reincarnation and the transmigration of souls, and still others in distinctly Grecian anthropological forms of expression. Yet convictions regarding "the resurrection of the dead" came into greater focus and arose more and more into prominence during this time as well. It is impossible to deal in brief compass with all of the issues and statements of pertinence from this period, but at least the following data need
to
be noted.
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1.1 On the Immortality of the Soul In "The Apocalypse of Weeks" of 1 Enoch 91-93 and "The Epistle of Enoch" of 1 Enoch 94-104 (both written in pre-Maccabean times) there appears, for example, an amalgam of terms and ideas that have to do with "sleep" as a locution for death, "souls" or "spirits" as disembodied personal beings, resurrection language and astral imagery (e.g., 1 Enoch 91: to, "Then the righteous one shall arise from his sleep, and the wise one shall arise"; see also 92:3-4; 100:5; 103:3-4; t04: 1-4}-with such a mixture eVidently drawn from a blending ofDanielIZ;2-3 and Greek anthropology. Jubilees 23;30-31 speaks of the "healing" of God's "servants," who will "rise up and see great peace" (a national restoration?) and to whom it is promised that "their bones shall rest in the earth, but their spirits shall have much joy." And in the Qumran P5alms
of Thanksgiving we read not only of "souls" existing in the "perfidy of the flesh" (e.g., lQH 1.20-21; 2.20; 5.29-30, 34-39) but also of "souls" or "spirits" existing in the afterlife (e.g., lQH 6.29-35; 11.10-14). Josephus speaks of the Pharisees as holding to a doctrine of resurrection, but describes their belief in terms of the immortality of the soul tinged with a distinctly reincarnational flavouring; Every soul, they maintain, is imperishable, but the soul of the good alone passes into another body, while the souls of the wicked suffer eternal punishment. (War 2.163; written about 75-79 CE) They believe that souls have power to survive death and that there are rewards and punishments under the earth for those who have led lives of virtue or vice: eternal imprisonment is the lot of evil souls, while the good souls receive an easy passage to a new life. (Ant. 18.14; written about 93-94 CE) Perhaps, as often argued, Josephus was here slanting hb words so as to be understood by his Roman and Greek audiences, using their concepts more than his own or those of the Pharisees. Yet since in War 3.362-82 he speaks about differences between the soul and the body in qualitative terms (they are "fond companions," with the body being "mortal, composed of perishable matter, but the soul lives for ever, immortal: it is a portion of the Deity housed in our bodies") and reasserts an immortality doctrine for the righteous at death ("Their souls, remaining spotless and obedient, are allotted the most holy place in heaven, whence, in the revolution of the ages, they return to find in chaste
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bodies a new habitation"), it is more likely that such statements reflect, in fact, Josephus's own early Essene apocalyptic understanding, and that he retained such views throughout his life (cf. Mason 1991; 1992: 36-40,132-35,142-43). Even more distinctly Grecian are the first five chapters of the Wisdom of Solomon (probably written some time during the mid-first century BCE, though perhaps as late as 10 CE), which depict the summum bonum of a righteous life as being the immortality of the disembodied soul immediately after death, without any reference to a resurrection. I For example, in contrasting the situations of the wicked and the righteous at death, 2:22-24 states that, although the wicked were created for immortality, they have lost eternal life and now face only death; of the righteous, however, 3: 1-4 states: But the souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and no torment will ever touch them. In the eyes of the foolish they seemed to have died, and their departure was thought to be an affliction, and their going from us to be their destruction. But they are at peace. For though in the sight of men they were punished, their hope is full of immortality. The death of the righteous, therefore, marks the beginning of a better, nonphysical existence "in the hand of God" and "at peace"-an existence where the hope of immortality will be realized, whether that immortality should be understood as an inherent, pre-existent quality of the soul or as a reward from God for righteousness, or both. Likewise in 4 Maccabees, which is a philosophical treatise on "Inspired Reason" (probably written at the close of the first century or during the first two decades of the second century CE), a doctrine of the immortali ty of the soul dominates, with no reference to a resurrection either spiritual or physical. Even the Maccabean martyrs cited as examples of enthmiastic devotion to their faith are not portrayed as looking forward toward a future resurrection (as in 2 Mace 7:1-41; 14:37-46; cf. 12:43-45), but arc depicted as passing immediately at death into the bliss of eternal life (10: 15; 13: 17; 17:4, 18; 18:23)-with the wicked punished immediately at death with eternal torment (9:8, 32; lO: 11,
Recension B Wis 7: 16 reads: "You will be taken up into the heavens, while your body remains on earth until seven thousand ages are fulfilled; for then all t1esh will be raised." But Recension B is widely regarded as the less reliable recension, and so this resurrection reference should probably be seen as a later addition that attempted to bring the eschatology of the Wisdom of Solomon into the orbit of later orthodox Jewish thought.
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15; 12:19; 13:15; 18:5, 22). And such a view of death as release for the righteous to the immortality of eternal life appears in such later Jewish apocalyptic passages as 2 Enoch 22:8-10 (cf. 42:3-5; 65:7-8), Apocalypse of
Moses (or, The Life of Adam and Eve) 32:4, and at various places in The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, The Testament of Abraham and The Testament of Job. 1.2 On the Resurrection of the Dead On the other hand, 1 Enoch 22, which is the major pre-Maccabean passage on Sheol, contains allusions to "the spirits/souls of the righteous" who will experience a resurrection (22:9) and to "sinners" who lived prosperously and without punishment during their lives being raised so as to receive the judgment that they escaped in life (22: 1O-11)-with it being said directly that thoroughly wicked and despicable people (i.e., "sinners and perfect criminals") will not rise (22: 13). And while the resurrection of "the righteous" in 22: 9 may be seen in purely spiritual terms and that of "sinners" in 22: 10-11 is described as a "retribution of their spirits," the fact that elsewhere in "The Book of the Watchers" (1 Enoch 6-36) the righteous are said to be destined to eat of the tree of life (25:4-6) and to enjoy abundant life in the messianic kingdom on a purified earth (10: 16-22), with Jerusalem and the Temple as its centre (25:5), seems to suggest that a physical resurrection of some type is in view. Likewise, "The Dream Visions" of 1 Enoch 83-90 (probably written sometime around 165-161 BeE) come to a climax in 90:28-42 in a vision of "all those sheep [i.e., the righteous within Israel] that have been destroyed and dispersed, and all the beasts of the field and the birds of the sky" being "gathered together" at the end of history into a "new house" (90:33 )-with, then, "a snow-white cow" born and all the righteous "transformed" into "snowwhite cows" (90:37-38). The vision suggests a resurrection and gathering of righteous Jews into an earthly messianic kingdom, with some type of transformation of the righteous then taking place. And it implies that Gentiles who have survived the judgment will be brought in and transformed as well (cf. 89:10-27,42-43,49,55-58,65-68; 90:2-19). Although the vision of 90:28-42 is powerful in its imagery and dramatic in its hope, its content is exceedingly difficult to unpack.
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Explicit statements regarding the resurrection of the dead are to be found in 2 Maccabees, which was written in the last decade of the second century BCE (perhaps about 106 BeE): in 7: 1-41 (the martyrdom of the seven brothers and their mother); in 12:43-45 (the action of Judas Maccabaeus on behalf of certain of his fallen soldiers, which he did "bearing in mind the resurrection") j and in 14:37-46 (the martyrdom of Razis, an elder and esteemed patriot of Jerusalem). And a recently published text from Qumran on "The Messiah of Heaven and Earth," which is catalogued as 4Q521, also includes an explicit reference to belief in the resurrection of the dead among the Dead Sea covenanters: "[Tlhen he [the Messiah] will heal the sick, resurrect the dead"
(cf. Wise, Abegg and Cook 1996: 421). Resurrection statements are also to be found in the "Parables" or "Similitudes of Enoch, " which most today view as a Jewish composition written sometime during the mid- or late first century CEo First Enoch 51: 1-5, for example, begins: "In those days, the earth will give back all that has been entrusted to it, 2 and Sheo! will return all the deposits which she had received, and hell will give back all that which it owes"; while 61:5 speaks of "those who have been destroyed in the desert, those who have been devoured by the wild beasts, and those who have been eaten by the fish of the sea" as those who will "all return and find hope in the day of the Elect One-for there is no one who perishes before the Lord of the Spirits, and no one who should perish." And 62: 14-16 says of "the righteous and elect ones": The Lord of the Spirits will abide over them; they shall eat and rest and rise with that Son of Man forever and ever. The righteous and elect ones shall rise from the earth and shall cease being of downcast face. They shall wear the garments of glory. These garments of yours shall become the garments of life from the Lord of the Spirits. Neither shall your garments wear out, nor your glory come to an end before the Lord of the Spirits.
Likewise, reference must be made to 4 Ezra (i.e., 2 Esdras 3-14), which was most likely written about 100 CEo For although an immortality doctrine appears at various places in 3:1-9:25-particularly in the depiction in 7:75-101 of disembodied souls awaiting final rewards or punishments in SheoliHades-the
2 This opening line is present in manuscripts Band C, so has been included by Charles (1963: 2.218) and Black (1985: 51). It is omitted by Isaac (in Charlesworth 1983: 1.36).
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ultimate hope of the author is in God's resurrection of the dead, as set out in 7:32-38: "The earth will give up those who are asleep in it, and the chambers [Le., SheoltHades} will give up the souls which have been committed to them" (7:32); "the Most High will be revealed upon the seat of judgment" and judgment of both the righteous and the wicked will take place (7:33-36); and "the nations that have been raised from the dead" will be similarly judged (7:37-38). Thus the author's final words
to
the people in 14:35 are fitting:
"After death the judgment will come, when we will live again; and then the names of the righteous will become manifest, and the deeds of the ungodly will be disclosed." In 2 Baruch (probably written during the first or second decade of the second century CE) there is a much more focussed depiction of the resurrection of the dead than is found in 4 Ezra, particularly with respect to the nature of the resurrection body. For while in the earlier portions of 2 Baruch there are numerous statements of a somewhat general nature regarding the final fate of both the righteous and the wicked, with these statements often including
allusions to the resurrection of the dead (e.g., 14: 12-13 and 30: 1-4 of the righteous; 30:5 and 36: 11 of the wicked), in 50: 1-51: 16 those resurrections are spelled out in quite explicit detail in answer to the question posed in 49: 1-3: I ask you, 0 Mighty One; and I shall ask grace from him who created all things; In what shape will the living live in your day? Or how will remain their splendor which will be after that? Will they, perhaps, take again this present form, and will they put on the chained members which are in evil and by which evils are accomplished? Or will you perhaps change these things which have been in the world, as also the world itself?
Thus in 50: 1-4 resurrection is set forth in terms of the revivification or reanimation of dead persons, as seen earlier in 2 Maccabees 7:1-41. The purpose of this "not changing anything in their form" is stated as being so as "to show those who live that the dead are living again, and that those who went away have come back" (50:3)-or, in other words, so that the living and the dead might be able to recognize one another (50:4). Yet in 51: 1-16 there is also an emphasis on the transformation of both the righteous and the wicked dead, with the righteous taking on "the splendor of angels" and becoming "equal to the stars" (51:5, 10) and the wicked changed into "horrible shapes" (51:5). The reason given for such transformations is so that resurrected bodies might be
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suited to their places of final destination: the righteous "so that they may acquire and receive the undying world which is promised to them" (51:3) and the wicked so that they will "waste away even more" (51:5). Book 4 of the Sibylline Oracles (whose Jewish authorship is fairly well established, whose provenance is presently located in Syria or Palestine, and whose date is usually assigned to the latter part of the first century CE) presupposes a similar doctrine of the resurrection of the dead as found in 4 Ezra 7:32-38 and 2 Baruch 50: 1-51: 16. This is most clearly evidenced in lines 17591, with the following being most significant for our purposes here: "God himself will again fashion human bones and ashes, and he will raise up mortals again as they were before" (181-82); "But as many as are pious, they will live on earth again, when God gives spirit and life and favor to these pious ones. Then they will all see themselves beholding the delightful and pleasant light of the sun. 0 most blessed, whatever man will live to that time" (187-91).3 2. The Tombs at Beth She'arim The excavations at Beth She'arim in 1936-40 and 1953-58 have been declared "one of the most important archaeological projects undertaken by the Israel Exploration Society" (Avigad 1976: Preface). The catacombs and "outer tombs," in particular, have yielded significant data for understanding Jewish views regarding the fate of the dead at the end of the Second Temple period. 2.1 The Site and Its History Beth She'arim is located on a hill called Shekh 'Abreq, which juts out from the southern extensions of the Galilean highlands, overlooks the Jezreel Valley to the southeast and views the Carmel range to the west. It was never on a major transportation route, and is situated today south of the Haifa-Nazareth highway. Excavations have shown that the site was first inhabited in the ninth century BCE and continuously occupied until the middle of the fourth century CE, when it was destroyed by the Roman general Gallus in 352 CEo It may have
been rebuilt as a poor and sparse village later in the fourth century. But it was finally abandoned some time in the sixth century CE and thereafter forgotten. Earlier the town seems to have been established by Simon (143-134 BCE) or
3
Lines 190 and 191 have textual problems, with 191 missing in some manuscripts.
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Alexander Jannaeus (103-76 BeE) as the central city of the Hasmonean royal estates in the Jezreel Valley. Later it probably was taken over by Herod (37-4 BeE) and so became a Herodian domain. It is first mentioned in an extant
historical source by Josephus, who, in describing his efforts to protect Galilee from squadrons of the Tenth Roman Legion, speaks of BY)o<xpa (the Greek name for Beth She'arim) as a large town at the centre of the estates of Queen Berenice, daughter of King Agrippa I, and a place for storing grain from the neighbouring villages (Life 118-19 [24]). Most of our historical knowledge about Beth She'arim, however, is derived from talmudic writings where it is called by its Hebrew name Beth She'arim (D)1Y'D n~:l) as well as Beth Sharei (Wl'D n):l) and Beth Sharein (r~''D n):l) ,
which are forms resulting from the Galilean Aramaic dialect. It was the home town of a prominent third-generation Tannaitic teacher of about 120-40 CE, Rabbi Johanan ben Nuri, who had been a pupil of Rabban Gamaliel II and who is frequently mentioned in talmudic literature. During the Bar Kochba revolt of 132-35 CE, however, Beth She'arim began to experience a decisive change. For when Roman forces invaded Israel, a large number of Jews left Jerusalem and their J udean villages and moved to Galilee for refuge-with Beth She'arim, in particular, becoming one of the most important Galilean cities of refuge. Beth She'arim also became a city of refuge for talmudic scholars, with RabbiJ udah ha-Nasi ("the Prince")-a fifth-generation Tannaitic teacher, who was a highly esteemed member of the Hillelian dynasty and president of the Sanhedrin-establishing the seat of the Sanhedrin there. 4 Rabbi Judah was a friend of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, who reigned as emperor at Rome during 161-80. And it was probably through Antoninus that the ownership of Beth She'arim, together with its neighbouring villages, was transferred from the estates of Queen Berenice to the Jewish Nasi-hood. Illness, however, overtook Rabbi Judah, and for the last seventeen years of his life he lived at Sepphoris, a Jewish aristocratic city in the heart of fertile Galilee where the air was thought to be healthier. s At his death in about 220
4 Cf. b. Ros. HaS. 30a-b and Gen. Rab. 97: "The Sanhedrin was transferred ... from Jerusalem to Jabneh, from Jabneh to Usha, ... from Usha to Shafar'am, from Shafar'am to Beth She'arim, from Beth She'arim to Sepphoris, and from Sepphoris to Tiberias." 5 Cf. b. Ket. 103b: "Rabbi was at Beth She'arim, but since he became ill, they brought him to Sepphoris. which was a high place with fragrant air."
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CE he was brought back to Beth She'arim for burial. After the Bar Kochba
rebellion and Rome's subsequent prohibition of Jews being buried on the Mount of Olives, the town of Beth She'arim became the central Jewish necropolis. And Rabbi Judah had earlier prepared there a burial vault for himself and his family. The Golden Age of Beth She'arim came to an end with the transfer of the Jewish Sanhedrin to Sepphoris and Rabbi Judah's death. Nevertheless, the city continued to be an important necropolis until its destruction in the middle of the fourth century. Jews who wanted to be buried in a holy place in the Holy Land came from all over Israel and the Diaspora to this little town in the Galilean foothills in order to spend theif last days there and be buried there, just as it had been customary for them to come to Jerusalem to be buried there. So Beth She'arim became an "international" centre of Jewry from the midsecond through the mid-fourth centuries CE, just as Jerusalem had been earlier.
2.2 The Excavations On the summit of Shekh 'Abreq, where the city centre of Beth She'arim was located, the remains of large public buildings and a synagogue were found, together with some private homes. Excavations in this area have provided important insights and materials for a reconstruction of the city's history. But it is the catacombs and "outer tombs" of Beth She'arim-all of which have been broken into and plundered-that have proven to be most significant. For their dimensions go far beyond the needs of the town itself, and the materials, ornamentations, inscriptions and graffiti found in connection with the burials have been most revealing. Catacombs 1-11, which are located on both sides of a valley to the west of the central town area, were excavated by Benjamin Mazar during four seasons of excavation in 1936-40 (1973). Catacombs 12-23 and several "outertombs," located closely together on the northern slope of the town's central hill, were excavated by Nahman Avigad during four seasons in 1953-58 (1958)-with Mazar returning to conduct another season of excavation during the summer of 1956 when Avigad was away on sabbatical leave. Catacombs 14 and 20 are the most important catacombs at Beth She'arim. They are the largest of the catacombs excavated, with extensive courtyards, magnificently arcaded facades and large rooms-all of which suggests that here
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were interred people of wealth and status who were highly esteemed by the community. Catacomb 14, while not as large as Catacomb 20, is a fine example of a family burial vault. It had an open-air assembly area above it for gatherings of people to commemorate those buried beneath. The excavators, in fact, believe that the double tomb at the end of Room II in Catacomb 14 was probably the tomb of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi and his wife, for it is distinguishable from all the others by its location, size, large stones used and space given to it, and unique though modest construction. Furthermore, they believe that around this tomb were located the tombs of Rabbi Judah's family members and close associates-such as the three tombs simply inscribed with the designations "Rabbi Shim'on" ()WY.:l\!.i ~l'), "This is [the tomb of] Rabbi Gamaliel" (';n. p~m )l""l~\!J )))
and "This is [the tomb of] Rabbi Aniana" (KlWJN )l""l?'V U), who
probably were those reported to have been spoken about by Rabbi Judah himself as "Shim'on, my son, the Sage; Gamaliel, my son, the President; Hanina bar Hama, the Chairman" (cf. b. Ket. 103 and 72). More than likely the tomb of Rabbi Judah and his wife was left unmarked, for, as Avigad has pointed out, "the tomb at the end of the cave, built of large stones, conspicuous in its unconventional form, and famous for its importance, did not need to be marked since there was no chance of its being forgotten" (1976: 63). Catacomb 20, on the other hand, seems to have been a public burial place for other highly esteemed Jews, which category would have included many rabbinic families. In it some 130 stone and marble sarcophagi were discovered, with remains of wood, lead and pottery coffins also able to be discerned. And while most of the inscriptions in the other catacombs (other than Catacomb 14) are in Greek or Aramaic, with some also in the Palmyrene dialect from northeast of Damascus and one in Himyarite from southwestern Arabia, the inscriptions on the sarcophagi in Catacomb 20-though not always the graffiti-are in Mishnaic Hebrew.
2.3 Materials and Ornamentation The great majority of sarcophagi found at Beth She'arim were made of limestone-some hard limestone and some soft, some white and some yellowish, some local stone (though not from the caves themselves) and some stone from the immediate neighbourhood, with some transported from farther afield. Most of the stone coffins are smooth, without any ornamentation. But many are
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ornamented with various reliefs in patterns taken from animal or still life. Some examples from Catacomb 20 are the Lion Sarcophagus (two lions flanking a vase or jar); the Eagle Sarcophagus (with heraldic lions, a bull's head, and stylized garlands on all sides of the coffin); the Rosette and Hunt Sarcophagus (a sixpetalled circular rosette with a hunting scene of a lion in pursuit of a gazelle); the Gate Sarcophagus (elaborately carved double gate with four panels, flanked by ornamental links, and two fluted columns with Ionic-type bases and capitals); the Mask Sarcophagus (the head of a bearded man with curly hair, wide-open eyes, raised eyebrows, and a closed and twisted mouth); the Acanthus Sarcophagus (decorative leaves representing the acanthus plant); the Shell Sarcophagus (two richly ornamented shells, which represent the Arks of the Law, with patterns of interlacing circles, vine tendrils, heraldic bulls and birds pecking at a cluster of grapes); and the Candlestick Sarcophagus (a carved menorah, which was also found at many places on the walls of the catacombs). Most of these reliefs incorporate motifs that were associated with death among the Jews or were common among Jewish artists. Most surprising, however, are the marble sarcophagi found in Catacomb 20, many of which are ornamented with scenes from Greek mythology. These sarcophagi were presumably imported from abroad, for the kind of white marble used cannot be found in the region, the workmanship of the ornamentation seems better than what was then locally available, and the mythological scenes suggest Gentile craftsmen. In addition, various pieces of marble statuary have been found in Catacomb 20 which evidently were associated in some way with the marble sarcophagi-such as the hand of an Amazon woman holding the shaft of an axe; the bent leg of a mounted Amazon, showing a tunic draped above her knee and an upper strip of boot around her calf; a fragment of the head of a horse, showing the right nostril, the upper jaw and teeth; the damaged head of a woman with her hair hanging down, which suggests a wounded woman dropping her head in agony; the upper part of the torso of a woman with her right breast bare, a necklace around her neck and two bracelets on her arm, but without her head and left arm; and the figure of a winged Eros, minus his head, who is seated and holding the palms of his hands with his fingers crossed on his right knee. In speaking of the materials and ornamentation of the Beth She'arim sarcophagi, Avigad has observed:
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Nowhere else in Palestine have sarcophagi of this type been found, in which Jews were certainly buried. As the Beth She'arim discoveries show, there was a considerable importation of marble sarcophagi from abroad, and the purchasers were not always Gentiles; sometimes they were Jews. Even though these coffins had pagan ornamentation, they were used in caves where members of rabbinical families were buried. This proves once again the degree of rolerance shown by the Jews of Beth She'arim towards the penetration of Hellenistic influence into a great and distingui8hed Jewish burial centre. (1976: 33) And Avigad aptly goes on to say: The tolerance of the Jews of that period in matters of fine art is explained by the fact that the various representations were deprived of their pagan character and original symbolic significance. Many symbols which had their origin in pagan beliefs had acquired a universal character. They were cut off from their original source and became conventional forms of ornament. Their use among the Jews became widespread and general, as is proved by repeated rulings of the sages on questions concerning what was permitted and what was forbidden in matters of this kind. The rabbis could not withstand the spirit of the times, caused by the spread of Hellenism, and made concessions in the interpretation of the commandment "Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image" (Exod. xx, 4). They laid stress on what followed: "Thou shalt not bow down to them nor serve them." So long as there was no suspicion of idolatry, they were not strict; beyond this point Judaism permitted no compromise. (1976: 35)
2.4 Inscriptions and Graffiti Even more interesting and significant, however, are the inscriptions and graffiti in the Beth She'arim catacombs. While some may be merely ornamental and traditional, others are to be taken as highly significant indicators of then,held Jewish attitudes toward life, death and the afterlife-particularly reflecting Jewish views regarding the immortality of the soul and the resurrection of the dead. Frequently appearing, of course, is the menorah or seven-branched candelabrum, which was (and is) a common symbol in Jewish synagogues and tombs. It is a symbol of light and life, and so expresses hope for eternal life. It also symbolized God's compassion and forgiveness, so has often been understood as a kind of guarantee of the soul's immortality. It appears inscribed on a number of sarcophagi, is set in raised relief on some of the walls, is
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scratched onto both coffins and walls, and is incorporated into some graffiti in place of the Hebrew and Greek words for "eternal life" or the idea of "the world to come," with the result that a short semi-pictographic sentence is formed. The use of words and menorah to form such semi-pictographic sentences appears not only on coffins and their nearby walls. It also appears in Catacomb 12, Room I-which served as the main passageway into the other rooms, with stone benches along its walls for the seating of mourners-at the entrance to the complex of other rooms in the catacomb, with a graffito in Greek on one of the door jambs and another graffito in Hebrew close by, together with a graffito of a rather sick-looking eagle. These two semi-pictographic sentences, it may be presumed, together with the dejected eagle, were the handiwork of one or more of the visitors. The threat of divine judgment for opening a tomb-whether to place another body in it or to loot it-is frequent in both Jewish and Christian tombs, and is a feature commonly found in the inscriptions at Beth She'arim. Usually the intruder is threatened with a denial of his portion in the world to come, as in Inscription 129: I, Hesychios, lie here with my wife. May anyone who dares to open [the gravel above us not have a portion in the etemallife [J.1~ eXTI J.1epO~ Ei~ 'tOY
PCov aoVtov l.
Other less heinous judgments also appear, as, for example, in Catacomb 12 where two Aramaic inscriptions threaten any violator with "an evil end" and another in Greek forbids opening the tomb "in the name of the divine and secular law." In Inscription 162, however, that threat of judgment is specifically associated with God's promise to resurrect (Le., "make alive") the dead: Whoever would change this lady's place [i.e., the woman buried in this grave], He who promised to resurrect the dead will Himself judge [6 tnctvytA&J.1EVO~ 'WnOt~aE tou~ VEKPOU<; a.i)to~ Kp(EL]. This particular wording in a judgment formula, as Moshe Schwabe has observed (Schwabe's observation cited by Avigad 1976: 36; see also Schwabe and Lifshitz 1974), has no parallel-not in the inscriptions found at Beth She'arim, nor in the inscriptions found anywhere else in Eretz Yisrael.
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Noteworthy about this inscription is the conclusive evidence it bears that belief in the resurrection of the dead was accepted in that period by the Jews who used to bring their dead to Beth She'arim for burial. Perhaps most significant for our topic of Jewish attitudes toward immortality and resurrection, however, are the two graffiti on the walls of the eastern entrance and corridor to Catacomb 20. For after crouching down to enter Catacomb 20 through its eastern entrance and corridor, straight ahead one sees a Greek graffito (InSCription 193) incised on the wall in very thin lines that are about 78 cm long and 25 cm high, with letters that vary in height from 5 to 10 em: 8APCITE IIATEPEC OCIOI OTMC A8ANATOC Be of good courage, Holy Fathers [or, pious parents]! No one is immortal.
The exhortation "Be of good courage" (usually 8cipOl, though once spelled 8cioOl and here in the plural as 8apoi>tE ) is common at Beth She'arim. The statement "No one is immortal" (whether a8civa-roc; or variantly spelled o8civatoc;) is also common. Such a statement could, of course, be understood as a protest against viewing the human "soul" as inherently immortal. Its use here, however, was probably only to express comfort regarding the common plight of humanity. Looking up from this graffito, one can see another Greek graffito at the ceiling to the left (Inscription 194), which is incised in bolder lines about 90 em long and 35 em high, with letters that vary in height from 6 to 12 em: ETITXQC THTMON ANACTACI Good luck on your resurrection!
"This inscription," as Avigad points out, "provides clear evidence that belief in the resurrection of the dead was widespread among Jews" (1976: 95). Furthermore, as Avigad goes on to say regarding these two graffiti:
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Apparently the two inscriptions were incised by visitors to the catacombs, perhaps well after the burial had taken place. The fact that the inscriptions were incised at the entrance of the catacomb and not near the graves leads us to believe that these words of consolation and blessing were not addressed to any particular persons whose graves were being visited, but rather to all the deceased who were buried in this catacomb, out of esteem and affection. (1976: 95 and 100, with intervening diagrams)
3. The Letters of Paul Readers of this essay-especially the honouree of this volume-hardly need a lesson on "Paul and the Resurrection." Elsewhere I have written on this subject (1985; 1998), and constraints of space require that I only allude to some of the main features of those presentations. Still, some comments of a comparative nature are here necessary. In what follows, therefore, I will simply sketch a few of the central emphases in Paul's letters regarding the resurrection of the dead. That Jesus believed in the resurrection of the dead is plain from Mark
12:18-27, and parallels, where the Sadducees' question about a woman who had been married to seven husbands is answered by his fourfold reply that (1) a doctrine of the resurrection of the dead is rooted in scripture ("you do not know the Scriptures"), (2) God is able to resolve all seeming contradictions ("nor [do you know 1the power of God"), (3) some type of transformation of people and relationships will take place at the resurrection ("they will neither marry nor be given in marriage; they will be like the angels in heaven"), and (4) when God establishes his covenant with his people-as with the patriarchs Abraham, Isaac and Jacob ("I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob"), who were the paradigms of God's dealing with his people-not even death is able to bring that relationship to an end ("God is not the God of the dead, but of the living"). That Jesus went beyond what many other Jewish teachers of his day would have said on the subject is debatable. Nor is one able to maintain that Jesus' disciples went beyond-or, in their case, even approached-the views of resurrection that were prevalent in their day. Mark 9: 10 says, somewhat enigmatically, that when Jesus spoke of the rising of the Son of Man from the dead, his disciples "kept the matter to themselves" and began questioning "what 'rising from the dead' meant" (1:i
eon v 1:0 tK VEKPWV avao1:llv(Xt).
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It is dear, however, that Paul taught a distinctive doctrine of the resurrection of the dead. Of all the New Testament writers, he is the one who speaks most on the topic-principally in 1 Thessalonians (4: 13-5: 11), 1 Corinthians (15:12-58) and 2 Corinthians (4:14-5:1-10), but also in 2 Thessalonians (2: 1-12), Romans (8: 19-25; 13: 11-12) and Philippians (1:21-26; 3: 10-11,20-21 j 4:5). Much could be said in explication of Paul's understanding of the resurrection of the dead. Suffice it for our purposes here to highlight (1) the bases for his understanding, (2) some distinctive features in his understanding, and (3) the relation he saw between resurrection and immortality.
3.1 The Bases for His Understanding Much of what Paul thought about the afterlife and personal resurrection must, of course, be credited to his Jewish background as a Pharisee. Acts 23:6-10 represents him as claiming a Pharisaic basis for his convictions about resurrection, and what he says on the subject in his letters strongly reflects such a background. Nonetheless, it need also be recognized that Paul himself considered his understanding of resurrection to have been primarily based, particularly where his views were distinctive, on the traditions he received from his Christian predecessors regarding Christ-in particular, what the early Christian confessions proclaimed about Christ's resurrection, what Jesus was reported to have said about a future resurrection of believers and what Paul himself inferred from such traditions regarding the resurrection of Christ's own. What fixed and focussed all of Paul's inherited thought regarding a future resurrection of the dead was for him the fact of the resurrection of Jesus Christ, and it was from this central event that his thought as a Christian proceeded. Thus in 1 Thessalonians 4:14, for example, he argues from the confession "Jesus died and rose again" to assure his converts that "even so will God bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him." In 1 Thessalonians 4: 15 he argues from a "word of the Lord" (the substance of which he appears to quote in 4: 16-17) that "we who are alive, who remain till the coming of the Lord, will not precede those who have fallen asleep." And in 1 Corinthians 15: 12-58 Paul bases his argument for the bodily resurrection of believers in Jesus on the confession set out in 15:3b-5, which he sees as setting the paradigm for all
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Christian thought about resurrection generally, and from which he infers a number of matters of clarification regarding the resurrection of the dead. For Paul, the resurrection of the dead was a doctrine based in the revelation of the Jewish scriptures and inherited from his Pharisaic past. In the time before he became a follower of Jesus Christ, he evidently had no doubt about its general truthfulness-though many questions regarding its specifics probably remained. With Christ's resurrection, however, the paradigm for understanding the doctrine had been set and certain ambiguities associated with it clarified. What earlier was founded on his Jewish instruction, therefore, became fixed and focussed when seen in the light of Christ.
3.2 Distinctive Features in His Understanding Distinctive to the New Testament's proclamation of the resurrection is the christocentric emphasis given to the doctrine: that Christ's resurrection is the basis for a future resurrection of believers; that Christ is the agent of a believer's future resurrection; and that Christ's parousia is the time when that resurrection will take place. These are matters that underlie the message of resurrection throughout the New Testament. And they are features that appear also in Paul's letters. Probably most important for our purposes here, however, is the teaching that Paul himself identifies in 1 Corinthians 15:51 as being an explication of an enigma or "mystery"-that is, that the resurrection of believers in Jesus will not be simply a revivification or reanimation of dead persons, as seems to have been widely thought by many in his day, but that it has to do primarily with transformation. This teaching he introduces in 15:51 by the declaration: "Listen, I tell you a mystery" (iOOD j.Lunlptov Uj.L1V .l..eyw); and in 15:51-52 he twice emphasizes the point: "We will [all] be transformed" (aUaYTJooj.LE8a). This is a transformation not like thataUuded to in2 Baruch 51: 1-16, which was only so that resurrected bodies might be better suited to their places of final destination. Rather, Paul viewed it, as he says in Philippians 3: 21, as a transformation that will be effected by "the Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform [j.LE'taaXl1 j.La,iaE L] our lowly bodies," whose purpose and result will be "so that they will be like his glorious body." Through a contemplation of the nature of Christ's resurrection, therefore, it seems that Paul came to clardy his own thinking about the nature of the believer's future resurrection-that is,
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that much more than revivification or reanimation is involved, but that, like Jesus who was transformed when God raised him from the dead, believers in Jesus will also be transformed when they are raised from the dead, and so be like him in this respect as welL
3.3 The Relation between Resurrection and Immortality Although relations between the concepts of resurrection and immortalitywerc often vague in the Judaism of Paul's day-at times distinguished; at times merged-Paul seems not to have viewed them as either opposites or synonyms. They may be distinguished, yet they are always closely related in Paul's letters (on their relationship, cf. Harris 1985 j 1998). Murray Harris aptly characterizes Pauline thought on immortality in the following four summary points (1998: 165): 1. Only God inherently possesses immortality (1 Tim 6: 15-16). 2. Immortality is never predicated on the "soul"; "this mortal body" is destined to "put on" immortality (1 Cor 15:53-54). It is not by birth, but by grace and through resurrection that immortality is gained. 3. Immortality is a future gift (1 Cor 15:53-54). 4. The highest good (summum bonum) is not equated with freedom from embodiment but with the receipt of a spiritual body as a perfect instrument for the knowledge, worship, and service of God (Rom 8: 23; 1 Cor 15:43-54; Phil 3:20-21). What Christians eagerly await is their "heavenly body" (2 Cor 5:2), not incorporeal bliss (2 Cor 5:2-4).
In Paul's teaching, resurrection and immortality both find their focus in the risen Christ. Resurrection involves transformation, since "flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God" (1 Cor 15:50). Resurrection also involves immortality, since believert; will be "raised immortal" (1 Cor 15:52). Transformation and immortality, therefore, are coincident in Paul's teaching with the resurrection of the dead. They are both, in fact, part of the future resurrection event itself. 4. One Important Conclusion There were certainly differences between Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi and Paul. One thing they had in common, however, even amidst a wide diversity of opinion in their respective days regarding the fate of the dead, is that they both viewed the
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resurrection of the dead as a central doctrine of true religion, with its acceptance or denial having a profound effect on one's religious and ethieallife. Rabbi Judah was not only the president of the Sanhedrin and the most esteemed rabbi of his day, but he was also the compiler of the Mishnah-which is the codification of the Oral Law and the foundational document of the Talmud. It is, of course, impossible
to
say with certainty just how the various
statements within the Mishnah received their final forms. Yet Rabbi Judah haNasi stands behind and can be seen in almost everything that is written. This is true for Mishnah Sanhedrin 10: 1, which reads: All Israelites have a share in the world to come, for it is written, "Thy people also shall be all righteous, they shall inherit the land forever; the branch of my planting, the work of my hands that I may be glorified" [Isa 60:21]. And these are they that have no share in the world to come: he that says there is no resurrection of the dead [prescribed in the Law],6 and he that says that the Law is not from Heaven, and an Epicurean. 7 The fact that "the resurrection of the dead" appears first in this short list of central doctrines that cannot be rejected without fear of losing one's "share in the world
to
come"-the three major doctrines being "Resurrection of the
Dead," "Reverence for Torah" and "Acceptance of Rabbinic Authority," with three other disqualifying deviations then given in the latter part of the verse (i.e., reading extra-canonical books as though they were authoritative, uttering incantations for healing and pronouncing the Divine Name)-makes it abundantly clear that the resurrection of the dead was a major tenet of Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi and of the rabbinic Judaism that succeeded him. Likewise, Paul began his longest discourse on the resurrection of the dead with the words of 1 Corinthians 15: 12-19: But if it is preached that Christ has been raised from the dead [as in the confession of 15:3b-5], how can some of you say that there is no resurrection of the deadl If there is no resurrection of the dead, then not even Christ has been raised. And if Christ has not been raised, our preaching is useless and so is your faith. More than that, we are found to be
6 The phrase "prescribed in the Law" is omitted in some Mishnaic texts. 7 "Epicurean" is frequently applied in the Talmud to Jews as well as to Gentiles, for it
connoted one who was "free from restraint," so not bound by rabbinic teaching.
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false witnesses about God, for we have testified about God that he raised Christ from the dead. But he did not raise him if in fact the dead are not raised. For if the dead are not raised, then Christ has not been raised either. And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins. Then those also who have fallen asleep in Christ are lost. If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all people. Although different in many respects, here is a feature of profound agreement between Rabbi Judah ha-Nasi and Paul. How does one account for it? Probably it is best to say that both men were rooted in the scriptures (whether called the Jewish scriptures or the Old Testament) and both were Hillelians (whether by birth and training, or training alone). Jews and Christians have both profited immeasurably from that heritage.
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References Avigad, Nahman
1958 1976
Excavations at Beth She'arim, 1955: Preliminary Report. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society. [1971] Beth She'arim. Report on the Excavations During 1953-1958, Vol. 3: Catacombs 12-23. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society and the Institute of Archaeology, Hebrew University.
Black, Matthew
1985
The Book of Enoch or I Enoch. Leiden: Brill.
Charles, R. H. 1963
[1913] Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha of the Old Testament. 2 vols. Oxford: Clarendon.
Charlesworth, James H.
1983-85 The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha. 2 vols. Garden City: Doubleday. Cull mann, Oscar 1955-56 "Immortality of the Soul or Resurrection of the Dead." Harvard Divinity School Bulletin 21: 5-36. 1958 Immortality of the Soul or Resurrection of the Dead. London: Epworth. Harris, Murray J. 1985
Raised Immortal: Resurrection and Immortality in the New Testament.
1998
Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. "Resurrection and Immortality in the Pauline Corpus." In Richard N. Longenecker (ed.), Life in the Face of Death: The Resurrection Message of the New Testament, 147-70. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans.
Longenecker, Richard N. 1985 "The Nature of Paul's Early Eschatology." New Testament Studies 31: 85-95. 1998 "Is There Development in Paul's Resurrection Thought?" In Longenecker, Life in the Face of Death: The Resurrection Message of the
New Testament, 171-202. Mason, Steve
1991
Flavius Josephus on the Pharisees: A Composition-Critical Study. Leidenfl\ew Yark: Brill.
1992 Josephus and the New Testament. Peabody: Hendrickson. Mazur, Benjamin 1973 [1957] Beth She'urim. Report on the Excavations During 1936.1940, Vol.l: Catacombs1·4.Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society and the Institute of Archaeology, Hebrew University.
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Schwabe, Moshe and Baruch Lifshitz 1974 [1967] Beth She'arim, Vol. 2: The Greek Inscriptions. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society and the Institute of Archaeology, Hebrew University. Wise, Michael 0., Jr., Martin Abegg and Edward Cook 1996 The Dead Sea Scrolls: A New Translation. San Francisco: Harper & Row.
16 THE EARLIEST EVIDENCE OF AN EMERGING CHRISTIAN MATERlAL AND VISUAL CULTURE: THE CODEX, THE NOMINA SACRA AND THE STAUROGRAM
LARRY
W. HURTADO
The main objective of this essay is to draw attention to some phenomena that are of considerable significance for a historical analysis of earliest Christianity but are not given the attention they merit. l In understanding why greater account is not taken of such phenomena we will identify two unfortunate features of current scholarship: (1) a tendency for scholars who profess a commitment to historical analysis to approach the New Testament and other literary sources for earliest Christianity relying on printed editions of early Christian writings instead of developing a familiarity with the features of the ancient manuscripts, and (2) an unavoidable specialization that hinders scholars from taking into account the full range of relevant evidence for historical questions. The phenomena I wish to highlight are important because, I contend, they represent the earliest extant evidence of an emerging Christian material and visual culture that must be placed no later than the early second century eE, and may well be earlier.
1. The Codex "The most momentous development in the history of the book until the invention of printing was the replacement of the roll by the codex" (Roberts and Skeat 1987: 1). One of the great puzzles about early Christianity is its wholesale preference for the papyrus codex over the scroll. This preference is markedly clear in the earliest Christian manuscript evidence, which takes us
1 One of the few New Testament scholars who is an exc.eptiDn is Trobisc.h (1996).
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back to the mid-second century or perhaps earlier (palaeographers differ by a few decades in their dating of particular relevant manuscripts).2 This in turn means that the Christian adoption of the codex as the preferred form for books must likely be placed no later than the late nrst century. In the surviving evidence, we do not see an evolution in Christian preference with incremental stages, but an appropriation of the codex that appears to have been as thorough as it was early. Moreover, this seems to have gone against the wider preference for the scroll outside of Christian circles, and it preceded by several centuries the eventual success of the codex over the scroll in wider Roman culture. 3 It was not until the fourth century CE that the codex began to become the dominant form for books. The figures for the earlier centuries are striking. For example, of the non-Christian manuscripts that can be dated prior to 200 CE, more than 98 percent are scrolls; but almost all Christian manuscripts of the
. d are cod'Ices. 4 same peno This very early preference for the codex contrasts also with the Jewish preference for the scroll. The Qumran texts, for example, are entirely scrolls, as is nearly every other manuscript of clear Jewish provenance prior to 200 CEo Indeed, it appears that the codex was not used for copying the Hebrew Bible until about 700 CEj and even then the codex was restricted for copies intended for non-liturgical use (Tov 1992: 206-207). To be sure, the Christians did not invent the codex. The earliest form of the codex was a wooden tablet (Greek 1t(va~) with wax writing surface, quickly followed by multiple wooden tablets (1t(vm:E~) tied together with thongs. By the first century CE, however, the dominant codex form was the notebook of parchment leaves (Latin membrana) used mainly for personal records and memoranda, and even for private study copies of literary works. s Roberts and Skeat responded favourably to Lieberman's proposal that these parchment
2 Van Haelst (1976) is a standard reference work that also indicates disagreements over date~ of manuscripts. 3 See Skeat (1969); Blanchard (1989); Resnick (1992); Roberts and Skeat (1987); Gamble (1995); Llewelyn (1994); Horsley (1995: 76-83); Trobisch (1996: 106-24). 4 For discussion of early Roman-era uses of scroll and codex, see Roberts and Skeat (1987; 24-37; for the Christian evidence, see 38-44). 5 Roberts and Skeat (1987: 11-23). Thus, the ~Ef.!~p&v(y'(; requested in 2 Tim 4: 13 are likely parchmem notebooks!codices: Roberts and Skeat (1987: 22); Gamble (1995: 50-51): Ziegler and Somheimer (1979: 1.1238).
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notebooks may have been in use in the first century among Jews for recording teachings of] ewish Torah mas ters and for priva te study (Lie berman 1962: 203208; RobertS and Skeat 1987: 59; but cf. also Sirat 1989). There is also some evidence of experimentation with the codex for portable editions of literary works, something perhaps like modern pocket/paperback editions. But the surviving evidence suggests that in the first and second centuries CE the literary use of the codex "was limited and would remain at best sporadic and tentative until the fourth century, when it finally came into its own" (Gamble 1995: 53; see also Roberts and Skeat 1987: 24-37). Although Joseph van Haelst dates the Christian manuscripts to the late second and early third centuries CE, slightly later than Roberts did, and suggests that the transition in the general Roman culture from scroll to codex was already beginning in the late second century, he grants that the rapidity and extent of the early Christian appropriation of the codex are unparallelled for that period (1989: 32-34). True, the preChristian use of the codex involved parchment, whereas Christians preferred papyrus, but even here it is reasonable to suppose that Christians were appropriating rather than inventing something. The question of whether Christians "invented" the codex is a red herring. The matter to be explained is the surprisingly early and widespread Christian appropriation of the codex for their own writings at a point when the scroll was still overwhelmingly preferred outside Christian circles. Various proposals have been made as to what prompted the Christian preference for the codex, but there is no clear consensus in view yet. Roberts has shown cogently that explanations invoking the supposed "practical" advantages of the codex (more economical, compact, able to bring together a number of writings in one manuscript, convenient to use, easy to reference) do not bear up well under scrutiny (Roberts and Skeat 1987: 45-53; see also Gamble 1995: 54-56). The alleged advantages are not as substantive as some have assumed, and in any case the massive preference for the scroll evident in all non-Christian evidence from before 300 CE indicates that such supposed advantages either were not then generally perceived or else were not sufficient to encourage preference for the codex. G. H. R. Horsley has recently proposed a combination of factors that disposed early Christians toward the codex. Contending that Christians largely came from social levels with limited educational attainment, he suggests that
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they were more familiar with the codex because of its use in elementary schooling and in daily business dealings, whereas the scroll was a format more used by the "highly educated elite" for high literature. He also asserts that in the first two centuries Christians "did not yet look on their newly written texts as sacred," so the codex likely seemed to them a thoroughly appropriate form (1995: 81-83). Then the codex, having once been favoured for these reasons, thereafter became the traditional and preferred form for Christian writings. But, leaving aside for this discussion the question of whether Horsley's characterization of the socio-economic level of early Christians is adequate, it seems to me that there is another, fatal flaw in his proposal. The very early Christian preference for the codex format is evident not only in manuscripts of what became the writings of the New Testament (whose scriptural status was not yet fully secured) but also in earliest Christian manuscripts of the Old Testament, that is, writings whose scriptural significance and authority were much more clearly accepted by Christians. In other words, right from the earliest evidence the Christians seem to have preferred the codex even (especially?) for their most highly esteemed writings, the Old Testament scriptures included. There is no clear connection in the Christian evidence hetween the codex format and writings of a supposedly lessthan-scripture status. In fact, the Christian use of scrolls is somewhat better attested for non-scriptural writings, such as devotional texts, theological treatises, writings that came to be regarded as "apocryphal" (e.g., Gospel of Thomas, Gospel of Peter) , and liturgical texts, although even in these categories the codex was favoured (Roberts and Skeat 1987: 42-44). So, the more likely explanations for the Christian preference for the codex are those that involve a deliberate appropriation. Roberts proposed two possibilities: either a Roman point of origin and an initial use to write a gospel, such as Mark, or perhaps a Jewish-Christian provenance in Jerusalem or Antioch and an initial use of the codex for written collections of Jesus' teachings (Roberts and Skeat 1987: 54-61). Both hypotheses seem to most others to be overly speculative, resting upon dubious assumptions about the structure of earliest Christianity. With somewhat greater plausibility, Harry Gamble has argued that the precedent-setting use may have been for a collection of Pauline epistles (1995: 58-65). As he notes (58), Paul's letters were the earliest Christian writings to be considered apostolic, and already by
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the time of 2 Peter a collection of Pauline letters is referred to and apparently likened to Old Testament scriptures (2 Pet 3:15-16).6 After laying out evidence for an early collection of Pauline letters to seven churches, Gamble states his case as follows (63): It is only in connection with a seven-churches edition of the Pauline letters that we can find in the early history of Christian literature both the materials and a motive that might have conspired to suggest the use of a codex rather than a roll. It is also only in connection with the letters of Paul that we can see by the early second century an esteem for the authority of any Christian documents sufficient to have promoted the codex into prominence as the appropriate medium of Christian literature. This coming together of transcriptional need and religious authority in the Pauline letter collection and nowhere else makes it nearly certain that the codex was introduced into Christian usage as a vehicle of a primitive edition of the corpus Paulinum.
It is not essential for me to argue here for any specific position on the issue of what initial use of the codex might have been influential, whether for a collection of Pauline letters or a gospel, or for an early Christian testimonia collection. 7 Whatever option one chooses, the undeniably distinguishing Christian preference for the codex stemmed from some initial use that quickly became precedent-setting, and it is this latter phenomenon that I wish to point to as constituting a very early step in the development of a Christian material culture. Moreover, although an initial Christian use of the codex might have involved some practical consideration (for example, Gamble's suggestion that the codex more easily served for a collection of writings), thereafter the Christian preference for the codex seems to represent a Christian social convention that distinguished it from the general culture and from the Jewish tradition out of which the Christian movement emerged.
6 The reference in 2 Peter 3: 16 to "all his letters" (tv naar.nc; ematoAaic;) indicates a collection; and the complaint there that the "ignorant" twist Paul's letters as they do "the other scriptures" (taC; AOt naC; ypa~Ci;c;) suggests that the Pauline writings may already be considered by the author as scriprural themselves. 7 Gamble himself grants that it is "possible, perhaps likely, that the codex was first employed in primitive Christianity for collect1ons of texts (testimonia) from] ewish scripture" (1995: 65), though he thinks that a Pauline letter-collection is more likely to have been the crucially influential usage that shaped subsequent Christian preference for the codex.
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Thus, this preference for the codex can be taken as a strikingly early indication of what can be termed an emerging "material culture" in Christian groups of the first and second centuries. It is most unlikely that the preference for the codex would not have been noticed by early Christians themselves as distinguishing their practice in book production. It may also be that the codex served to identify writings as coming from Christian hands. For example, in light of the contentions between Jews and Christians over the correct wording of key biblical christo logical proof-texts, the codex might have served to identify Christian copies of the Greek Bible (Resnick 1992: 7).
2. The Nomina Sacra The other feature that distinguishes early Christian manuscripts is the special scribal treatment accorded certain words, known since the pioneering work of Traube as the nomina sacra. 8 Essentially, the words are written in abbreviated forms with a horizontal stroke placed over the abbreviation. In a previous essay I have discussed the nomina sacra and have offered a proposal as
to
the origin
of this fascinating phenomenon (Hurtado 1998b). Here, therefore, I wish simply to summarize some of the basic facts and to develop a bit further two points briefly registered in that previous study: the nomina sacra are the earliest extant material evidence of Christian piety and faith, and they may also be regarded as the earliest surviving visual expression of this faith (672-73). As to date, the nomina sacra are found in the earliest surviving manuscripts of Christian provenance, indicating that the practice must have its origin no later than the late first century. Although the list of words treated as nomina
sacra continued to grow across the first several centuries and came to include some fifteen words, the earliest extant evidence attests four terms that are consistently written as nomina sacra when either God or Jesus is the referent: 8EO,;, KuptoC;, 'IT\O'ouC;, XptO''toC;.9
8 Traube (1907). These abbreviations are described in Metzger (1981: 36-37); Roberts (1970: 1.60-61); Gamble (1995: 74-78); Trobisch (1996: 16-31). A fuller discussion is given by Roberts (1979: 26-48). 9 The fifteen words that came to be nomina sacra include the Greek terms for God, Lord, Jesus, Christ. Spirit. Father. Son, David. Cross, Mother. Israel, Saviour. Man, Jerusalem and Heaven (see Metzger 1981: 36-37).
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It will be apparent immediately that these four terms constitute divine names or titles. This suggests a Christian piety with a "binitarian shape" to it, in which Jesus is accorded the same sort of reverence as is otherwise given to God, with key terms that refer to either or both receiving the same sort of scribal treatment (see Hurtado 1998b). I have suggested that the nomina sacra may in fact have begun with a special abbreviation of . ITlO"out; and then very quickly spread to these other three terms, with other words being accorded this treatment subsequently.lo To illustrate the phenomenon, for these terms the dominant practice was to write the first and last letters of the inflected forms (e.g., et;, eu, Kt;, K u, ~,
IU, Xt;, Xu), though there are some small variations here and there (e.g., Xpt;). The horizontal stroke that is placed over these sacred abbreviations seems largely intended to mark off the words, somewhat as italics, boldfacing or underscoring does in printed texts. l1 There is no indication that the words were read out any differently. The nomina sacra were strictly a visual phenomenon, and functioned to register Christian piety visually. In sum, the nomina sacra manifest early Christian reverence for what the words represent, and amount to a distinctively Christian scribal practice. Indeed, so distinctive is the practice that palaeographers tend to consider the presence of n()mina sacra in a manuscript as a strong indication that it comes from Christian hands. 12 With the codex the nomina sacra thus constitute an emerging Christian convention that seems to have been motivated by a desire to mark Christian writings and express Christian religious piety in the way the texts were prepared. The extent of the practice among Christians is striking. The nomina sacra appear in writings from "orthodox" and heterodox circles, which suggests an
10 Hurtado 1998b: 665-71. It is worth noting that the word ltveuf.\.u (with the Holy Spirit as referent) seems to have come to be treated as one of the nomina sacra later than the four other terms mentioned here that have God and Jesus as their referents. 11 I have proposed, however, that the stroke may have originated from its use in Greek papyri to indicate that letters are to be read as number5, in connection with the abbreviation of Jesus' name as ~ to flag its numerical value of 18 (Hurtado 1998b: 664-71). 12 Obviously, the presence of nomina sacra is significant only in manuscripts where the words in question appear (or survive, as in fragmentary manuscripts). But even in damaged manuscripts with lacunae where the words in question would have appeared it is possible to hypothesize with some confidence whether they are likely to have been written as nomina sacra by estimating the number ofletters that the lacunae could accommodate.
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instance of emerging standardization at a very early point when we would otherwise expect only wide diversity among Christians (for various types of Christian writings with nomina sacra see Hurtado 1998b: 657-58). Moreover, it is interesting to note that, although the list of words treated as nomina sacra grew across the early centuries, they all seem to reflect a clearly "protoorthodox" or mainstream type of Christian belief and self-understanding. 13 In addition to terms for the persons of the Christian Trinity (God, Lord, Jesus, Christ, Spirit, Son, Man, Saviour, Father), we find David, Mother Oesl1s' mother as referent), Israel, Jerusalem, heaven, and cross/crucify (in references to Jesus' crucifixion) written in distinctively Christian abbreviated forms. Specifically gnostic terms such as Bythos or Pleroma receive no such treatment, even in the gnostic/gnosticizing writings, where some of the known nomina
sacra do appear and are treated as such (e.g., "Jesus"). Given the historical importance of the nomina sacra it is curious that they are not more often treated by scholars. There is, for example, no entry for the
nomina sacra in the latest multi-volume Bible dictionary, The Anchor Bible Dictionary (Freedman 1992), or in the recent and valuable Encyclopedia of Early Christianity (Ferguson 1990; but see 686-91). After inquiring from the editor of a forthcoming encyclopedia of early Christian art as to whether it would contain an entry on the nomina sacra, I was told that no entry had been planned and was then asked to write one (Hurtado 1999)! In conversations with experienced New Testament scholars over the last few years I have frequently been surprised to find how many either have no knowledge of what the term nomina sacra refers to or may recall vaguely that it has something to do with ancient Christian manuscripts, with which they have no direct experience.l intend no slight to them or an unfavourable comparison. Instead, my point is simply to note how widespread is the contemporary notion among scholars in Christian origins that first-hand acquaintance with the actual artifacts of earliest Christianity is apparently not obligatory. This, in tum, must to some degree derive from those who trained and mentored most of our generation of scholars.
13 I borrow the term "proto-orthodox," inter alia, from Ehrman (1993: 12-13), to describe the sort of first- and second-century Christians whose beliefs and practices eventuated in what became regnant "orthodox" Christianity.
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Whatever the causes for the neglect of the nomina sacra, they clearly represent the earliest extant physical and visual manifestations of Christian faith and piety, their origin likely taking us back to the first century. As mentioned already, the codex and the nomina sacra both signal an emergent Christian material culture beginning to be registered at a point well before other, better-known features of developed Christianity (examples include the monarchical bishop or a New Testament canon, even earlier than :'v1arcion's canon)-astonishingly early for a religious movement that was at that point still a good way from a developed understanding of itself. 14
3. The Staurogram I have mentioned that the nomina sacra were intended as visual expressions of Christian piety. I have suggested that they can be thought of as "hybrid" phenomena in that they combine textual and visual/iconographic features and functions, "with particular sacred words presented in a special written form that was intended to ... express special reverence for them as visual signs" (Hurtado 1998b: 672-73). There is, however, a slightly later but even more obviously visual artifact that is historically significant, yet regularly overlooked. By the end of the second centuty, the term o'taup6; ("cross") and the verb G't<Xupow ("crucify") came to be included among the nomina 5acra. In a couple of our earliest New Testament manuscripts, P66 and P7 5 (both from ca. 200 CE), these words are written in a particularly interesting manner, the initial sigma and the final few letters of either the noun or verb forms, and in between the rho superimposed on the tau to form a monogram-like construction thus,
-f! (for P66 see Martin 1956; 1958; for P75 see Martin and Kasser 1961). Given that this construction occurs only when the words refer to the cross/crucifixion of Jesus, this monogram has been referred to as a "christogram,"
bmit ' that III . th'IS Phenomenon we have a stn'k'mg or better, a "staurogram. ,,15 lsu
14 Cf. Paul C. Finney's claim that the Christian paintings of the Callistus catacombs" constitute the earliest attested material expression of Christianity as a culturally distinct religious minority" (1994: 151). Unfortunately, in this otherwise excellent and valuable study he shows no acquaintance with the Significance of the Christian codex or the nomina sacra. 15 Black (1970); Aland (1967); Dinkier-von Schubert (1995); Finegan (1992: 352-55, 38182). The staurogram also appears in the fourth-century Coptic manuscript of The Gospel of Truth (p. 20 of the codex, line 27; a photograph of this page is given in Finegan, 384).
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indication of an emergent "visual culture" in early Christianity, and that the staurogram constitutes the earliest extant direct visual reference to the crucifixion of Christ. In fact, the staurogram precedes by some one hundred years the next earliest (and more commonly known) visual representation of the crucified Jesus in Christian art of the fourth century and later. In second-century Christian writings we have evidence that the Greek letter
tau could represent the cross ofJesus. Barnabas 9:8 gives a distinctively Christian exegesis of the 318 servants of Abraham in Genesis 14: 14 as a symbolic reference to the crucifixion of Jesus. The number 318 can be expressed in Greek letters as TIH: the tau, the Greek symbol for 300; the iota, for ten; and the eta for the number eight. The same passage confirms what we know from some of our earliest Christian manuscripts, that IR, the first two letters of the name • Illcrou~, was an ancient Christian nomina sacra abbreviation ofJesus' name. More directly relevant here, however, is the reference to the Greek letter tau as a symbol for Jesus' cross.
16
Given this early symbolic association of the tau with Jesus' cross, it is reasonable to take the tau in the staurogram as a visual symbol of Jesus' cross.
I suggest that it takes little imagination to see that the superimposed rho was intended to give pictographic reference to the crucified figure ofJesus on the cross, the loop of the rho a stylized/pictographic representation of the head of a figure on a cross. As Kurt Aland stated years ago with reference to the staurogram in these early New Testament papyri: "In it is marked the centre of the Christian faith, the cross, more precisely, the death of Christ on the cross" (1967: 178). Likewise, Matthew Black concluded that the original meaning of the staurogram was "a Christian tropaion, a victory-sign of the Passion, designating not simply Christus, but Christus crucifixus" (1970: 327). To be sure, the same tau-rho monogram can be found in pre/non-Christian use, for example, as an abbreviation for 'tpuxKae;, 'tpoKovoae; and forms of'tp6noe; (McNamee 1981: 119; Avi-Yonah 1940: 105). Early Christians adapted terms and other items from their culture, and the tau-rho monogram is another example. But the point is that the new meaning assigned to this monogram in these Christian papyri clearly has to do with the death ofJesus.
16 Cf. Barnabas 12: 1-7, where the author also finds other symbols/anticipations ufJesus' cross in Tanak stories of Moses (c.g., Moses' outstretched arms in Exod 17:8-13).
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This is of considerable significance for the larger historical question of how early and in what circumstances Christians made visual reference to Jesus' crucifixion. Historians of early Christian art have typically not taken account of the staurogram, likely because it is a feature of ancient New Testament papyri, which do not tend to be seen as artifacts relevant for the history of Christian iconography. 17 They and other historians often have concluded that the visual reference to Jesus' cross/crucifixion, even in symbolic form, commenced in the fourth century. IS To cite one important example, in his very useful survey of preConstantinian archaeological evidence of Christianity Graydon Snyder emphatically denies that there is any evidence of visual reference to Jesus' crucifixion earlier than the fourth century (1985: 26-29). Snyder mentions and rightly challenges the supposed cross-shaped mark on the wall of a house excavated in Herculaneum, and, less convincingly, dismisses the significance of the Alexamenos graffito from the Pale tine in Rome (the date of the latter, to be sure, is by no means certain). He makes reference to early Christian use of "common abbreviations like XP to express their hidden allegiance to Christ," but protests that "it would be as difficult to disprove the meaning of a crypto-symbol as to prove it" (29). Snyder shows no acquaintance with the staurogram in the early New Testament papyri; and for reasons I have sketched above the staurogram is not particularly a crypto-symbol in these key New Testament papyri, hut quite evidently is to be taken as an overt reference to Jesus' crucifixion, as the monogram appears in words that are used to refer directly to that event. Snyder's prescriptive claim that there is "no place in the third century for a crucified Christ, or a symbol of divine death" (29) unfortunately rests upon a less than complete survey of the relevant evidence.
17 E.g., Milburn (1988) has a discussion of "Signs and Symbols" (1-7) that makes no reference to the staurogram, though he does mention use of cross marks and the use of the chi-rho monogram (cf. also Kirschbaum 1968-76: 2.562-90, esp. 572). 18 E.g., DinkIer (1965), who referred to the "absolute dogma that the symbol of the cross makes its first appearance in the age of Constantine" (132), and insisted that "we have no other [than the debatable cross mark on the Herculaneum wall] archaeological evidence from the first or second centuries of a cross which had been definitely made by Christians" (134). This reflects the earlier judgment ofSulzberger (1925). Of course, at the point when both Sulzberger and DinkIer wrote, P66 and P75 had not been discovered (although they were known by the time DinkIer's essay appeared in English).
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To cite another example, in an otherwise informed and insightful study of early Christian cross symbolism Peter Moore claimed, "Only as a secondary interpretation did the sign, in the form of
+ or T, also come to refer to the
instrument of Christ's death" (1974: 105). After quickly mentioning several meanings of the cross symbol in early Christian literature and several types of cross symbols (among which the staurogram is curiously not listed!), Moore insisted that "it is clearly a misconception to regard the different types of cross as examples of a crucifixion image manque" (106). To be sure, the cross symbol was used by early Christians with various connotations and it would be foolish to take every Christian cross mark as a reference to Jesus' death. But in the
case of the staurogram used in sentences that directly refer to Jesus' death, we are practically compelled to see the symbol as a visual allusion to the crucifixion. As with a large number of scholars, however, Moore seems to have been unaware of the staurogram, so he drew conclusions that did not take account of all the relevant evidence. On the other hand, in his programmatic essay on the earliest Christian archaeological evidence, Erich Dinkier recognized the historical importance of the staurogram in the early New Testament papyri and, acceding to Aland's argument that it constituted a direct visual reference to Jesus' crucifixion, he noted that this artifact was considerably earlier than what was more customarily treated as evidence of Christian art and iconography (1967: esp. 64-66). Granted, the staurogram is a comparatively simple and highly symbolic reference to Jesus' crucifixion, and not nearly as aesthetically complex or impressive as even the earliest extant Christian paintings from the third century and later. Simple and "low-tech" as it may be, however, it is directly relevant to the historical question of how and when early Christians first began to
make visual reference to the death of Jesus. Although the phenomenon is
found in Christian manuscripts, it is, I submit, a visual sign intended for the eye as an allusion or reference to Jesus' crucifixion. Thus it is to be considered in any history of Christian iconography and in any historical account of how early Christians referred to Jesus' death. 19
19 Commendably, Finegan (1992: 352-55) provides a brief and informed discussion of early Christian abbreviations and monograms, including the tau-rho staurogram.
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4. Conclusion The three phenomena I have discussed all represent material artifacts of early Christianity and constitute our earliest extant evidence of what may be thought of as an emerging Christian material and visual culture. That is, they show a deliberate use of these phenomena by early Christians to mark off their practices, preferences and religious piety from the larger culture. The early Christian preference for the codex is undeniable, and the distinction from the general book-format preferences of the time is clear and striking. Whatever may have been the initial impetus for Christians to favour the codex, very quickly, very early and very thoroughly the codex became a convention among Christians for the preparation of their books, especially their sacred books. One of the purposes served may have been the identification of books from Christian hands, and this may have been particularly important for copies of the Bible (Old Testament). In any case, the preference for the codex seems to have been a deliberate move that furnishes us with the earliest evidence of an emergent Christian "material culture," a preference marking Christian practice as such. The nomina sacra seem
to
be equally early as Christian phenomena, and
even more transparently exhibit Christian piety and beliefs, registered physically in these scribal devices in Christian manuscripts. Even if, as some have proposed, the practice derived from] ewish sacred abbreviations ofKupLO~ and/or e£6~ (for which, however, any clear evidence is now lacking), the treatment of the names . IT]O'ou~ and Xptcrt6~ with the same scribal reverence obviously shows a distinctively Christian piety. As such, these rwmina sacra are further evidence of a material culture, one intended to register Christian piety visually. The staurogram, although apparently somewhat later than the appearance of the nomina sacra or the Christian appropriation of the codex, is another indication of what we might term an emergent "visual culture" among early Christians (at least by the second century). More precisely, the staurogram makes a direct reference to the crucifixion ofjesus, and may even be seen as a pictographic representation of the crucified Jesus. In any case, this monogram is a visual, iconographic phenomenon that is our earliest visual reference to Jesus' death. As such, it must be incorporated into our histories of earliest
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Christian symbols and iconography, and our analysis of earliest Christian visual references to and representations of Jesus' crudfixion. Manuscripts are part of material culture. They supply us with information far beyond the technical and specialized questions of papyrologists, palaeographers and textual critics. Scholars concerned with the development of earliest Christianity ignore the evidence provided from early Christian
. at thelr . pen. .\20 manuscnpts
20 It is a special pleasure to offer this essay in gratitude and friendship to Peter Richardson. At my first participation in an annual meeting of the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies in 1976, as a newly arrived immigrant to Canada and a young scholar, I experienced his genial welcome and encouragement. In the more than twenty years since then, Peter has been a trusted advisor and friend whose natural gifts of leadership I admire and whose scholarly contributions to the field have continued to stimulate me.
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References Aland, Kurt 1967
"Bemerkungen zur Alter und zur Entstehung des Christogramms anhand von Beobachtungen bei P66 und P75." In Kurt Aland, Studien zur Dberlieferung des Neuen Testaments und seines T extes, 17379. Berlin: De Gruyter. Avi-Yonah, Michael 1940 Abbreviations in Greek Inscriptions. London: Humphrey Milford. [reprinted in Alan N. Oikonomides, Abbreviations in Greek Inscriptions, Papyri Manuscripts and Early Printed Books. Chicago: Ares, 1974] Black, Matthew "The Chi-Rho Sign-Christogram and/or Staurogram." In W. Ward 1970 Gasque and RalphP. Martin (eds.), Apostolic History and the Gospel: Biblical and Historical Essays Presented to F. F. Bruce on His 60th Birthday, 319-27. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Blanchard, Alain, ed.
1989
Les debuts du codex: Actes de lajournee d'etude organisee a Paris les 3 et 4 juillet 1985 par /'lnstitut de papyrologie de la Sorbonne et l'Institut de recherche et d'histoire des textes. Turnhout: Brepols.
Dinkier, Erich [1951] "Comments on the History of the Symbol of the Cross." 1965 Juurnal for Theolugy and Church 1: 124-46. "Alteste christliche Denkmaler-Bestand und Chronologie." In 1967 Erich Dinkier, Signum Crucis: Aufsatze zum Neuen Testament und zur christlichen Archaologie, 134-78. Ttibingen: Mohr. [reprinted, as "Alteste christliche Denkmiiler," in P. C. Finney (ed.), Art, Archaeology and Architecture of Early Christianity, 22-66. New York/London: Garland, 1993] DinkIer-von Schubert, Erika 1995 "CTAYPOC: Vom 'Wort vom Kreuz' (1 Kor. 1,18) zum KreuzSymbol." In Doula Mouriki, Christopher Moss and Katherine Kiefer (eds.), Byzantine East, Latin West: Art-Historical Studies in Honor of Kurt Weitzmann, 29-39. Princeton: Department of Art and Archaeology. Ehrman, Bart D.
1993
The Orthodox COTntption of Scripture: The Effect of Early Christological Controversies on the Text of the New Testament. New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press.
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Ferguson, Everett, ed. 1990 Encyclopedia of Early Christianity. New York/London: Garland. Finegan, Jack 1992 [1969] The Archaeology of the New Testament: The Life ofjesus and the Beginning of the Early Church. Second ed. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Finney, Paul C. 1994 The Invisible God: The Earliest Christians on Art. Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, Freedman, David Noel, ed. 1992 The Anchor Bible Dictionary. 6 vols. New YorklLondon: Doubleday. Gamble, Harry Y. 1995 Books and Readers in the Early Church: A History of Early Christian Texts. New lIavenlLondon: Yale University Press. Horsley, G. H. R. 1995 [ 1993] "Classical Manuscripts in Australia and New Zealand and the Early History of the Codex." Antichthon: Journal of the Australian Society for Classical Studies 27: 60-85. Hurtado, Larry W. 1998a [1988] One God, One Lord: Early Christian Devotion and Ancient jewish Monotheism. Second ed. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. 1998b "The Origin of the Nomina Sacra: A ProposaL" journal of Biblical Literature 117: 655-73. 1999 "Nomina Sacra." In Paul C. Finney (ed.), Encyclopedia of Early Christian Art and Archaeology. New York/London: Garland. Kirschbaum, Engelbert, ed. (with GUnter Bandmann) 1968-76 Lexikon der christlichen Ikonographie, 8 vols. Rome: Herder. Lieberman, Saul 1962 Hellenism in jewish Palestine: Studies in the Literary Transmission, Beliefs and Manners of Palestine in the I Century B.C.E. • IV Century C.E. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary. Llewelyn, S. R. "The Development of the Codex." In S. R. Llewelyn, with R. A. 1994 Kearsley (eds.), New Documents IUustrating Early Christianity, Vol. 7: A Review of the Greek Inscriptions and Papyri Published in 1982-83, 249-56. North Ryde, NSW: Macquarie University Ancient History Documentary Research Centre. Martin, Victor Papyrus Bodmer II, Evangile de jean, chap. 1-14. Cologny-Geneva: 1956 Bibliotheca Bodmeriana.
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1958
Papyrus Bodmer II, Evangile de Jean; Supplement, chap. 14-21. Cologny-Geneva: Bibliotheca Bodmeriana. Martin, Victor and Rodolphe Kasser 1961 Papyrus Bodmer XIV, Evangile de Luc, chap. 3-24. Cologny-Geneva: Bibliotheca Bodmeriana. McNamee, Kathleen 1981 Abbreviations in Greek Literary Papyri and Ostraca. Chico: Scholars Press. Metzger, Bruce M. 1981 Manuscripts of the Greek Bible. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Milburn, Robert 1988 Early Christian Art and Architecture. Berkeley: University of California Press. Moore, Peter G. 1974 "Cross and Crucifixion in Christian Iconography: A Reply to E. J. Tinsley." Religion 4: 104-15. Resnick, Irven M. 1992 "The Codex in Early Jewish and Christian Communities." Journal of Religious History 17: 1-17. Roberts, C. H. 1970 "Books in the Graeco-Roman World and in the New Testament." In Peter R. Ackroyd and C. F. Evans (eds.), The Cambridge History of the Bible, Vol. 1: From the Beginnings to Jerome, 48-66. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 1979 Manuscript, Society and Belief in Early Christian Egypt: The Schweich Lectures 1977. London: Oxford University Press. Roberts, C. H. and T. C. Skeat 1987 The Birth of the Codex. London: Oxford University Press. Sirat, C. 1989 "Le livre hebreu dans les premiers sieeles de notre ere: Le temoignage des textes." In Blanchard, Les debuts du codex, 115-24. Skeat, T. C. 1969 "Early Christian Book-Production: Papyri and Manuscripts." In G. W. H. Lampe (ed.), The Cambridge History of the Bible, Vol. 2: The West from the Fathers to the Reformation, 54-79. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Snyder, Graydon F.
1985
Ante Pacem: Archaeological Evidence of Church Life Before Constantine. Macon: Mercer University Press.
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Sulzberger, M.
1925
"Le symbole de la croix et les monogrammes de Jesus chez les premiers chretiens." By~antion 2: 337-48.
T ov, Emmanuel
1992
The Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible. MinneapolislMaastricht: FortressNan Gorcum.
Traube, Ludwig
1907
Nomina Sacra: Versuch einer Geschichte der chrisdichen Kurzung.
Munich: Beck. T robisch, David 1996 Die Endredaktion des Neuen Testaments. Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Turner, E. G. The Typology of the Early Codex. Philadelphia: University of 1977 Pennsylvania Press. Van Haelst, Joseph 1976 Catalogue des papynls litteraires juifs et chretiens. Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne. 1989 ilLes origines du codex." In Blanchard, us debuts du codex, 13-36. Ziegler, Komat and Walther Sontheimer, eds. 1979 Der Kleine Pauly Lexikon der Antike. Munich: Deutscher T aschenbuch.
17
THE AESTHETIC ORIGINS OF EARLY CHRISTIAN ARCIDTECTURE 1 ORAYDON F. SNYDER
The origin of early church architecture remains a mystery, despite considerable research done and pages written. On the basis of both literature and archaeological evidence there is general agreement regarding the historical development: (1) the first Christians met in homes; (2) some such homes were altered for church use (domus ecclesiae)j (3) eventually a few homes were expanded to halls (aula ecclesiae)j (4) about 300 CE a few halls were built de nOVOj
(5) about the middle of the fourth century the Christian basilica
appeared. The movement from step one to step four might be projected as the normal development of religious architecture that occurs when the community expands and becomes more acceptable to the general public. Michael White, in his thorough study of early Christian architecture (1990), uses the architectural development in groups such as Mithraism and Judaism to demonstrate this expansive pattern. The same development obtains for the early Christian community. The major issue is not the expansion of the domus
ecclesiae but, rather, why the faith community made the architectural shift from the aula ecclesiae to the basilica. White introduces his study with the promise to solve the mystery, but like others before him finally concludes that "it just happened" (1990: 4-5, 147-48). Proposals have not been lacking (Milburn 1988: 13-16). The most obvious solution would be that the basilica takes its form from the very houses in which the first Christians met. The earliest known "pure" churches were longitudinal with two rows of columns creating a clerestory. At the entrance there were
It is an honour and pleasure to write this essay in appreciation for my long-time friend and colleague, Peter Richardson, whose research concerns run parallel to the topic addressed here.
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three doors-one for the nave and one each for the side aisles. At the front of the church was an apse in which the liturgical acts occurred. A suburban house consisted of an atrium at the entrance, a peristyle (an open courtyard) formed by columns in a longitudinal axis (with rooms on each side of the axis), and a
triclinium (dining room) at the front (Fig. 11). The pattern of the suburban house matches almost perfectly the plan of an early church like S. Sabina in Rome. It has been deeply tempting to say that the first Christians met in wealthy suburban homes with longitudinal peristyles. Then, when they first came to construct their own buildings dedicated to worship, they designed them to match the houses they had already experienced. Tempting as it may be, there are at least two major flaws in the argument. Pompeii-style homes did not exist in urban areas like Rome. Most Christians met in smaller apartments. Second, there were not many early Christians who could have afforded a wealthy suburban Pompeii-like villa-some, perhaps, but not many. It is a fantasy to suppose that the first Christians met in such beautiful, wealthy homes (Murphy-O'Connor 1983: 153-59; White 1990: 12-17). More economics-oriented scholars have stressed the poverty of the preConstantinian church-a community without the resources to build any edifice (Finney 1994: 108). Only when the church became public did benefactors like Constantine provide buildings that then were built like other. contemporary public buildings ([Fig. 12]; Brandenburg 1979; White 1990: 23). But prosopographic research does not allow this reconstruction (Meeks: 1983: 7273; White 1990: 142-47). While there may not have been many wealthy early Christians, there were enough that some built edifices would have been possible. The first Christians chose deliberately to stay with the house church. It is my intent here to approach the problem from a more aesthetic perspective. In such an analysis there are three aspects: the meaning of space and form; the value of tradition (or nostalgia); and the preservation of original function. 1. The Meaning of Space in the Religious Built Form Space or perspective is, of course, an essential part of built form aesthetics (Giedion 1941: 30-31; Scruton 1979: 43-52). Furthermore, space may carry more aesthetic implication than decoration (Zevi 1957: 24-31). Certain spaces or forms carry set aesthetic meanings (Ching 1979; Holgate 1992: 59-61). For
AESTHETIC ORIGINS
291
this study we will limit our discussion to circles, rectangles and squares-forms particularly pertinent to religious architecture. The earliest religious meeting places probably were round (Stonehenge [Fig. 1], Avebury, Newgrange). Invariably they were built to reflect the change of the seasons (especially the time of the winter solstice). Appropriate worship consisted of moving with the seasons in a circular fashion. The religious actors often stressed fertility rites and formed community by circular dancing. About as early as the round foundation was one that stressed a straight line movement from the entrance to a cella at the other end. In the earliest stage, we call the rectangular building a Breithaus, Langhaus or, in England, the Long Barrow (Eanna Temple [Fig. 2], Edfu, Solomon's Temple [Fig. 5], the Parthenon). In it the religious actor moved forward to a sacred place (altar), a divine presence (icon) or an authoritative person (priest). This religious edifice stresses an end-time (goal-oriented) religion, and a hierarchical organization. In contrast to those in the circular, dancing type, these religious actors march forward toward the anticipated end-time community. While some rooms in early religious buildings may have been square, not many early examples of a purely square religious building exist. The functional square temple, however, probably began with the development of a courtyard surrounded by "square rooms." The shift from longitudinal to square can be seen as early as 3000 BeE in a type called the House Plan temple (Mesopotamia; note Fig. 3). The square bUilding stresses neither dancing (the seasons) nor marching (the end time), but the present dedication of the human community within sacred boundaries. The sides of the meeting place are even (more or less), and the boundaries of the community are clear. Human considerations (often mingled with so-called divine law), such as diet or calendar observance, determine how one leaves the state of community purity and/or how one enters it. (Even the corner of a square room may signify unacceptable distance from the community-lo spettatore nel centro del quadro.) Meeting places such as the synagogue or the house church, as opposed to temples, tended to be square, though one might have to say, since they were not purpose-built forms, that many were simply neither round nor longitudinal. Just as the foundation of the religious building has symbolic meaning, so does the covering. The dome reflects the heavenly sphere made visible to the religious actor (McVey 1983; Davies 1952: 51-58). Some domes rest on a
292
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round foundation (the Pantheon, S. Constanza, Hagia Sophia and some Eastern churches). In such buildings the one who worships is surrounded by the divine and the worship centre is the point immediately below the apex of the dome. The divine presence perceived in the dome (Pantocrator) verifies the boundaries of the community housed below. In contrast, early in Western Christian history the dome was added to the longitudinal building. It was one thing to walk through a cruciform built form (a longitudinal bUilding with wings intersecting just before the apse) on the way to the apse or cella, but it was quite another to stand in the centre of a cruciform and see the heavens open above you (St. Peter's in Rome). In the West, divine presence, as perceived in the dome, verified the power of the entombed martyr who was located at the sacred "point" below the apse. Normally, longitudinal buildings were covered with a vaulted ceiling, which might have been triangular (Romanesque churches), a barrel vault (Norman churches) or arched (Gothic churches). In any case the intent was to let the religious actor move upward toward God while marching forward to the divine goal. The clerestory formed by such a vault contained mosaics or pictures of others who had earlier marched forward (Maria Maggiore in Rome; San Vitale in Classe [Ravenna]). The height of the vault offered a space that signified the transcendence of the divinity. Square meeting places tended to have flat roofs. The emphasis was placed on the human community as it represented the divine. In contrast to both the dome and the vault, the flat ceiling stressed the presence of the incarnate divinity. In the early centuries of the church, square buildings with flat roofs were not intentionally designed and constructed. They were houses (Fig. 7), apartments, basements and businesses that were adapted for religious purposes. Nevertheless, deliberate or not, the space of the house church reflected the importance of the community and the immanent presence of Jesus Oohn 20;
19-23). 2. Tradition or Nostalgia (Mimesis) The aesthetic significance of the square house church cannot be overestimated, but it makes the mystery even more complex. How could the first Christians shift from square to rectangle without deliberately altering the nature of the faith community?
AESTHETIC ORIGINS
293
Yet another aspect of aesthetic satisfaction is nostalgia or, perhaps, mimesis (Holgate 1992: 18). That is, satisfactory architectural development often follows the direction first established. Satisfactorily built form may follow its predecessors. In religious architecture particularly, the built form will likely represent to the religious actor a sense of paradise (McClung 1983). The built form signifies to the actor what the next existential step will be like. In some religions that could well be nature, so the built form may by its use of columns, its dome, its decoration and even its art recapitulate an earlier natural paradise. In the early church that "paradise" is not natural, but familial. Paradise is a home, not a wooded area. Certainly the Jesus tradition rejected the Temple in Jerusalem. In all the gospels Jesus and his Galilean, northern cohorts try to rid the Temple of its exclusivity (a house of prayer for all people, Mark 11: 17) and irs corporation· type activities in the realm of banking (Mark 11:15). The Jesus movement met in homes (Mark 1·4). There can be no doubt that the first church met primarily in homes. In the letters of Paul particularly we have frequent references to homes. In 1 Corinthians 16: 19 he sends a greeting to Aquila and Priscilla ouv 'ttl K(H' OiKOV alJ'twv eKKAT)o(q; ("with the church in their house"). Paul sends the same greeting in Romans 16:5. In Colossians 4:15 he greets Nympha and 'tl)v Ka't' OiKOV almll:; eKKAT)o(av ("the church in her house"). To be sure some halls are mentioned (ev 'ttl 0XOAtl Tupavvou, a "place ofleisure and learned discussion," in Acts 19:9; ev 't~ U1tEP~~, "upper chamber," "second storey," or "women's chambers," in Acts 20:8), and it is also true that we have very little archaeological evidence for houses prior to 300 CEo But what we do have indicates a nearly complete practice of meeting in homes or reconstructed houses (White 1990: 103·10). Archaeologically we have a nearly complete house church from Dura Europos (Fig. 7) and a less certain example in SS. Giovanni e Paolo in Rome. As with the Diaspora synagogues there is no known example of a house being rearranged to create a longitudinal pattern. A very few examples of the aula ecdesiae (church hall), which was normally longitudinal, did exist by rhe beginning of the fourth century (the aula teodorianaofAquileia [Gamber 1968: 19·26); S. Crisogono of Rome [Fig.lOJ), but they should not be seen as an architectural step between house and basilica. The aesthetic criterion of nostalgia would require that the familial
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church would continue to meet in homes, enlarged, perhaps, but homes nevertheless. The shift from a square to a rectangle (community to hierarchy) is indeed an astounding mystery. It is a shift from a home where the (resurrected) Jesus is present to a basilica where the authority of the transcendent Lord is invoked (the "official Roman building is an affirmation of authority" [Zevi 1957: 81]). The story, however, is not finished at this point. The early church did, in a sense, continue its nostalgia for the house church, as we shall see. 3. Function By function we do not mean that the built form was constructed to perform a certain purpose (like a garage or a tool shed). Aesthetically we mean that the new religious built form will normally continue the function of the original buildings even though times change, new techniques are available and the space may alter (Scruton 1979: 6-7; Holgate 1992: 191). The communitarian language of the first church was familial (Osiek and Balch 1997: 191, 221; Banks 1980: 52-61). Women and men addressed each other as sister and brother. The divinity or authority was father or mother. The religious actors were children of God. The meetings were familial. House churches contained areas for worship and meetings, food preparation and even baptisms. It is close to inconceivable that the early church would have dropped its familial meetings in a house atmosphere in favour of a hierarchical, liturgical, 100fgitudinai architecture (Zevi 1957: 81-83). In fact, prior to 313 eE, that is, even before the Constantinian Peace, the church obviously could have adopted some other form of architecture. The Diaspora Jews did (White 1990; Klauser 1974b). Apparently, the Christians intentionally kept the house church even after they were well established, no longer persecuted and wealthy enough to build edifices of a more public nature. 4. From Gemeinschaft to Gesellschaft Since the work uf Ferdinand T6nnies (1887) it has been commonplace for sociologists (Troeltsch 1931: 161-64; Tawney 1952) to speak of the shift from close community (GemeinsclUlft) to corporation (Gesellschaft). One can define the shift in many ways. T6nnies himself spoke of Gemeinschaft as a society
AESTHETIC ORIGINS
295
based on kinship, neighbourhood [i.e., space], friendship and barter, while
Gesellschaft was understood as a society based on agreements, with cultural conventions such as order, laws and moral stipulations (Tennies 1957: xi). Perhaps better put, the Gesellschaft is a social organization devised for the attainment of certain ends. The Gemeinschaft is a social structure that is an end in itself. It cannot be determined that a Gemeinschaft must always move toward a Gesellschaft, or that people(s) cannot move back and forth between a
Gesellschaft and a Gemeinschaft or communitas (T umer 1969: 51-53). Certainly, as far as Christianity is concerned, many find persuasive Ti:innies's argument for the inevitability of the shift from community to corporation, followed eventually by the breakup of the GeseUschaft into smaller communities. Religious architecture may, or may not, follow the Gemeinschaft-Gesellschaft shift. Does the so-called Ti:innies thesis explain what happened in early Christian architecture? Before we consider Gemeinschaft functionalism in early Christian architecture it would be instructive to examine architectural development in a parallel group: Israel. 5. Pre-Monarchical Israel The origins of Israel are as complicated as the quest for the historical Jesus. Everything we have is the product oflater use and has been subject to multiple redactions. The history given to us by the Hebrew scriptures surely is not the actual history. But as in other oral traditions some probable elements of history can be discerned. In the general period 1300 to 1000 BCE organization shifted from family to tribe and eventually to nation (Gottwald 1979). According to the patriarchal narratives the paterfamilias acted as the religious leader of the extended family. He offered appropriate sacrifices and assembled the household gods (Gen 31: 19). Whatever daily adherence to the divinity meant it did not occur at a fixed point with a designated officiant. On the other hand, there must have been animistic-type locations where communication with the divinity could occur (Mamre [Gen 13:181; Beth-el [Gen 28:22]). Despite references to Yahwehisrn in the patriarchal narratives, there is no way to ascertain when adherence to Yahweh began. If one takes the ancient tradition at face value, worship of Yahweh began with Moses, not during the patriarchal period. Whatever the history, under the name of Yahweh families must have come together as larger units, presumably tribes. At that time we
296
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read of coalitions forming in Palestine and the emergence of some centralized places for worship and decision-making. These centralized places were movable. First the Ark of the Covenant, with "God" present, riding on the seat, became a mark of tribal unity. About the same time a Tent of Meeting (Fig. 4) was built to house the Ark and to become the primary point of religious and political unity. God could be addressed in the Tent. Family and tribal unity, reflecting nomadic times, but also faith convictions, centred on a "cult house," the Tent, which was non-permanent. Once in Canaanite territory, whether by conquest, infiltration or conversion, Jews began to use already existing cult centres built by the Canaanites. It may have been a fatal error in the progress from Gemeinschaft to
Gesellschaft. Family worship shifted to tribal worship. Permanent cult centres replaced homes (Renfrew 1984: 46). Permanent sites necessitated stationary personnel such as priests. The democratic Gemeinschaft would begin to slip. Still, the cult sites were not hierarchical. Architecturally they were Breithiiuser, closer to the square foundation than the longitudinal (Fig. 6). As the archaeological remains indicate there were altars for sacrifices, but not naves for progression to the deity and the priests. The "permanent" personnel actually remained quite movable and spontaneous. Judges arose only when needed.
6. The Temple and the Monarchy The tribes were solidified under Saul, the king, and unified under David. David wished to symbolize that unity by building a temple, a building that would have brought all Jews under the authority of God and the king. But that architectural symbol was not allowed (2 Sam 7: 13). Indeed, it was not satisfactory. David did bring the ark, the tent, the ephod and the bronze serpent into Jerusalem (2 Sam 6; Gottwald 1979: 370), but he did not create an administration that negated the tribes. The communitarians, or egalitarians, had indeed resisted the establishment of the monarchy and the building of a temple. That resistance can be found in the various "elections" of Saul (1 Sam
8:4-18; 10: 17-19,27; 13: 13-15). Rather than David, it was Solomon who built the Temple with its longitudinal authority (Fig. 5). It was Solomon, not possessing the political ability of his father, who created an administrative structure that did away with tribal autonomy. As a result the major tribal types split off and returned to cult sanctuaries (Shechem, Dan [Fig. 6], Bethel).
AESTHETIC ORIGINS
297
While Solomon maintained a residue of the southern Gemeinschaft by placing the heretofore mobile Ark in an immobile Temple (1 Kgs 8:5-9; Renfrew 1984: 47), the northerners did not convert to a Gesellschaft and placed ancient theriomorphic altars in their non-hierarchical sanctuaries (1 Kgs 12:25-33). The conflict between south and north, Judah and Israel, was never resolved.
7. Gesellschaft during the Second Temple Era The Second Temple flourished as a Gesellschaft with its required sacrificial system, the temple tax and international banking. As such it lasted until 67 CEo Circumstances, however-Le., the Diaspora-forced Jews outside Palestine into another form of religious meeting-the return to Gemeinschaft in the form of the synagogue (Richardson 1996; 1998a). Jews of the Dispersion met in homes or halls. As in early Christianity, many of the extant Diaspora synagogues are in fact simply reconstructed houses (Dura Europos [Fig. 8], Stobi, Priene and Delos). Other synagogues, however, have hall-like qualities, or, as in Dura Europos, the house was restructured as a hall (Fig. 9). Some were even built into public buildings with already existing halls (Sardis). If columns are present in the hall, they normally occur close to the wall or otherwise do not actually follow the usual longitudinal pattern. In one wall will be found the Torah niche (as in both Figs. 8 and 9), which might make the hall appear to have a front. Though they built some Roman-type buildings, unlike the Christians of the fourth century the Jews did not build longitudinal temples (Richardson 1998b). The relationship ofJewish architecture to faith cannot easily be determined. Was there a negative nostalgia for the Jerusalem Temple? Did the presence and memory of the Jerusalem Temple forbid any other temple, as had already been the case at Elephantine in 411 BCE (Cowley 1923: xx, 108-14 [no. 30])? Did the democratic nature of post-67 cEJudaism prevent a longitudinal architecture? Did minority Jews avoid constructing buildings visible to the public? Did Jews, who basically rejected the symbols and art of Rome, also reject the architecture? Clarity may be impossible to achieve, but Jews did not move from house to temple!basilica, from square to rectangle, as did the early church.
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8. From Gemeinschaft to Gesellschaft in Early Christian Architecture How and why did early Christian architecture shift from a family-oriented home
to
a public basilica? How did the early Christian Gemeinschaft become
the fourth-century Christian Gesellschaft? Some of our problems with a functionalist approach to early church architecture are due
to
a lack of
understanding about the social practices of the first three centuries. Most cultures of the Mediterranean basin considered the dead as members of the family. Families were buried together in mausoleums or private plots. They built mensae or tables in the cemeteries so that families could eat with those who had died (refrigeria; Fevrier 1978). This occurred on the death date of the deceased. Obviously a large family could spend considerable time eating with their dead (Augustine, Conf. 6.2). The dead themselves received their food through a pipe inserted into the grave, though some early Christian art shows the dead person actually sitting and eating at the meal. Early Christians continued this practice of cating with dead family members, their extended family (Dyggvc 1943; Fcvrier 1978). Greco-Romans ate not only with their families, but with significant dead (Klauser 1974a). According to their belief system the significant dead could not only share a meal, but could also listen to petitions and concerns. Since the dead (oa(J.Lov€~) could stray only a few feet from the burial site, it became necessary to make special architectural arrangements. Significant dead tended to be buried in a building called a ijpov-often a round, domed edifice designed to accommodate as many people as possible within the prescribed limit (Pelekanidis 1978). Early Christians followed much the same pattern of eating with special dead, except that their special dead were martyrs, not heroes (Krautheimer 1969). In addition to loculi (individual graves) and cubiculae (rooms) in the catacombs some people were buried in round mausoleums much like the ijpov. Most of these burials were noteworthy and afforded opportunity for communion with the special dead. A special example would be the circular
memoria apostolorum discovered under San Sebastiano in Rome in the twentieth century. It appears to have acted as a supposed mausoleum for all the apostles. Whatever the history of that circular edifice, during the same excavation archaeologists found nearby a remarkable hall in which early Christians ate with their dead in the presence of Peter and Paul (Fig. 13). Their
AESTHETIC ORIGINS
299
prayers (147 remain) are scratched on the plaster wall of the triclinia (dining area). This third-century hall may not be the first martyrium, but it does point to a significant development. Early Christians ate with their heroes, the martyrs, and built special places so that they could be buried near the martyrs and could eat with them as well as their families. Several pre-Constantin ian martyria have been identified. One of the best preserved was found under the Munster in Bonn (Fig. 14). It is square, built somewhat like the triclinia of the suburban houses. On the sides are seats for the tables. In the centre is the martyr's table or mensa with depressions or tesselae for the food. Unlike the circular TJp<;>a these very early martyria are found in square structures with an open courtyard, as in Salona (Dyggve 1951; [Fig. 15]). As the number of Christians increased dramatically, the burial practices became a problem. More space for burials and for the family meals was needed. As the Peace of Constantine approached churches began to build extensive cemetery buildings above ground (Klauser 1974b). Most of the cemeteries followed a specific pattern. The significant dead were buried in a round edifice, like the TJP<;>ov, which then was elongated along a longitudinal axis. The elongated building had three aisles formed by long parallel columns. Most had a clerestory. Other than the few instances of an aula ecclesiae, these were the first Christian buildings (Klauser 1974a; S. Sebastiano, S. Lorenzo, S. Agnese). What appeared to be an altar in the apse was actually a mensa for the martyrium. The building itself was not a place of worship (Deichmann 1970). Instead, there were many burials and frequent meals for the dead. Covered cemeteries (coemeteria subteglata) were very popular. The people who frequented the covered cemeteries must have become differentiated from those who held more
to
traditional worship, square architecture, and who honoured
the bishops rather than the martyrs. In order to keep the family together (with their dead) yet simultaneously near the special dead (martyrs), the cemetery group adapted known architecture forms (apse, nave, clerestory), while the city churches retained functional architecture (houses and halls). Constantine, with an eye on a popular, family-oriented form of Christianity that derived from almost universal Roman practices, supported the cemetery style. Most of his churches consisted of a nave with side aisle, a clerestory supported by columns, all of which led to a supposed marryrium surrounded by burials (Ward-Perkins 1954; S. Lorenzo,
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
S. Agnese, S. Sebastiano, St. Peter's, SS. Pietro e Marcellino, S. Constanza, Church of the Nativity, Church of the Holy Sepulchre). But in the latter part of the fourth century the cemetery church developed inappropriate practices and liturgies. Given these inappropriate events, and the constant conflict between traditional and popular, it was inevitable that the covered cemeteries had to come under hierarchical control. Toward the end of the fourth century we can see the resolution of the conflict mediated by Ambrose and Augustine (ConI. 6.2). Architecturally speaking the meal for the dead was moved into the
traditional urban hall. Relics of the martyrs were, for the first time, placed in the city churches under a mensa that now had become the altar where the death ofJcsus was celebrated as well as the death of the martyrs. Much like the cemetery buildings, a longitudinal structure, with columns, was developed in the hall. The axis of the hall ended in a circular apse, instead of the marryrium of the covered cemeteries. In other words, just as temples of Jerusalem and Samaria incorporated the earlier signs of a tribal era, so the basilica made central to its built form the signs of the earlier familial development (Dyggve 1943; Krautheimer 1979: 23-37). The mysterious shift in architecture did not occur because of nostalgia for the suburban Roman house; nor to accommodate a larger congregation; nor to adapt to a changing liturgy; nor to express the growing authority of the clergy, or the addition of wealthy patrons (White 1990: 25; Krautheimer 1979: 4041). Early Christian longitudinal architecture derived from the very early concern to commune as an entire family, living and dead. When the early faith community became public, however, that familial focus was taken into proleptic basilica-type churches with an altar over a martyr, and a communal meal that recalled the first martyr, Jesus.
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AESTHETIC ORIGINS
Fig. 1 Stonehenge
Fig.2 Eanna Temple at Uruk (longitudinal religious building)
Fig.3 Shu-Sin at Tell Asmar (square temple with palace)
Fig. 4 The Tent of Meeting
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Fig. 5 Proposed floor plan of Solomon's Temple
at Dan
Fig. 7 House church at Dura Europos
Fig. 8 House synagogue at Dura Europos
Fig. 6 Square cult sanctuary
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AESTHETIC ORIGINS
Fig. 9 Aula at Dura Europos
Fig. 10 Isometric of S. Crisogono
(aula ecclesiae)
Fig. 11 House plan showing atrium, peristyle and triclinium
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Fig. 12 Basic Roman basilica plan
Fig. 13 Triclinia, S. Sebastino
Fig. 14 Bonn TTUlrt)'rium
Fig. 15 Mart)'rium and covered cemetery at Salona
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305
References Banks, Robert]. 1980 Paul's Idea ofCommunity: The Early House Churches in Their Historical Setting. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Brandenburg, Hugo 1979 Roms fruhchristliche Basiliken. Miinchen: Heyne. Ching, Francis D. R. 1979 Architecture: FornI, Space, and Order. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold. Cowley, A. 1923 Aramaic Papyri of the Fifth Century B.C. Oxford: Clarendon. Davies, John Gordon 1952 The Origin and Development of Early Christian Church Architecture. London: SCM. Deichmann, Friedrich Wilhelm 1970 "Martyrbasilika, Martyrion, Memoria und Altargrab." Mitteilugen des
deutschen archiiologischen Instituts; Romische Abteilung 77: 144-69. Dyggve, Ejnar
1943 1951
Dl'Jdekult, Kejserkult og Basilika: Bidrag til Splllrgsrru1!et om den oldkristne kultbygnings Genesis. K~benhavn: Branners. History of Salonitan Christianity. Oslo: Aschehoug.
Fevrier, Paul-Albert 1978 "Le culte des morts dans les communautes chretiennes durant Ie IIIe siecie." Arti del congresso intemaziona!e di archeologia cristiana 9: 211-
74. Finney, Paul C.
1994
The Invisible God: The Earliest Christians on Art. Oxford/New York:
Oxford University Press. Gamber, Klaus 1968 Domus Ecclesiae: Die iiltesten Kirchenbauten Aquilejas. Regensburg: Friedrich Pustet. Giedion, Sigfried
1941
Space, Time and Architecture: The Growth of a New Tradition.
Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Gottwald, Norman K. 1979 The Tribes of Yahweh: A Sociology of the Religion of Uberated Israel 1250-1050 B.C.E. Maryknoll: Orbis. Holgate, Alan 1992 Aesthetics of Built Form. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
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Klauser, Theodore "Christliche Martyrerkult, heidnischer Heroenkult und spatjudische 1974a Heiligenverehrung." In E. Dassmann (ed.), Gesammelte Arbeiten (von T. Klauser] zur Uturgiegeschichte, Kirchengeschichte und christlichen Archaologie, 221-29. Munster: Aschendorff. "Von Heroon zur Martyrbasilika." In Dassmann, Gesammelte 1974b Arbeiten, 275-91. Krautheimer, Richard 1969 [1960) "Mensa-Coemeterium-Martyrium." In Richard Krautheimer, Studies in Early Christian, Medieval, and Renaissance Art, 35· 58. Trans. Alfred Frazer et al. New YorklLondon: New York University Press/University of London Press. 1979 Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture. New York: Penguin. McClung, William Alexander 1983 The Architecture of Paradise: Survivals ofEdenandlerusalem. Berkeley: University of California Press. McVey, Kathleen E. 1983 "The Domed Church as Microcosm: Literary Roots of an Architectural Symbol." Dumbarton Oaks Papers 37: 91-121. Meeks, Wayne A. 1983 The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul. New Haven: Yale University Press. Milburn, Robert 1988 Early Christian Art and Architecture. Berkeley: University of California Press. Murphy-O'Connor, Jerome 1983 St. Paul's Corinth: Texts and Archaeology. Wilmington: Glazier. Osiek, Carolyn and David L. Balch
1997
Families in the New Testament World: Households and House Churches.
Louisville: WestminsterlJohn Knox. Pelekanidis, Stylianos M. 1978 "Kultprobleme in Apostel-Paulus Oktogon von Philippi im Zusammenhang mit einem alteren Heroenkult." Aui del congresso intemazionale di archeologia cristiana 9: 393-99. Renfrew, Colin 1984 Approaches to Social Archaeology. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Richardson, Peter "Early Synagogues as Collegia in the Diaspora and Palestine." InJohn 1996 S. Kloppenborg and Stephen G. Wilson (eds.), Voluntary Associations in the Graeeo-Roman World, 90-109. LondonlNew York: Routledge.
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1995b
"Augustan.Era Synagogues in Rome." In Karl P. Donfried and Peter Richardson (eds.), Judaism and Christianity in First.Century Rome, 17· 29. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. "Architectural Transitions from Synagogues and House Churches to Purpose. built Churches." In Julian V. Hills et al. (eds.), Common Life
in the Early Church: Essays Honoring Graydon F. Snyder, 373·89. Harrisburg: Trinity Press InternationaL Scruton, Roger
1979
The Aesthetics of Architecture. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Snyder, Graydon F.
1985
Ante Pacem: Archaeological Evidence ofChurch Life Before Constantine.
Macon: Mercer University Press. Tawney, Richard Henry
1952
Religion and the Rise of Capitalism: A Historical Study. New York:
Harcourt and Brace. T6nnies, Ferdinand
1887 1957
Gemeinschaft und Gesellschaft: Abhandlung des Communismus und des Socialismus als empirischer Culturformen. Leipzig: Fues's Verlag. Community & Society (Gemeinschaft und Gesellschaft) . Trans. Charles
P. Loomis. East Lansing: Michigan State University Press. Troeltsch, Ernst 1931 [1911] The Sucial Teaching of the Christian Churches. Vol. L Trans. Olive Wyon. New York: Macmillan. Turner, Victor 1969 The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure. Chicago: Aldine. Ward.Perkins, J. B. 1954 "Constantine and the Origins of the Christian Basilica. "Papers of the British School in Rome 22: 69·90. White, L Michael
1990
Building God's House in the Roman World: Architectural Adaptation Among Pagans, Jews, and Christians. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. [reprinted as Vol. 1 of The Social Origins of Christian Architecture. Valley Forge: Trinity Press International, 1996]
Zevi, Bruno 1957
Architecture as Space: How Horizon.
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18 HASCENT AND DESCENT" IN THE CONSTANTINIAN CHURCH OF THE NATIVITY IN BETHLEHEM WENDY PULLAN
In the ritual topography of Jerusalem that was established under the emperor Constantine, it was common for churches to incorporate both a shrine commemorating a theophany of the incarnation and a place for congregational worship. The combination of a centrally planned structure as mart)'rium and a basilica as domus ecclesiae was a way of properly fulfilling and differentiating between the two roles. Although this was typical of Constantinian architecture in other Christian centres too, particularly Rome (Deichmann 1946; Krautheimer 1986: 64-70; Kuhne! 1988: 2), for Jerusalem, as the most immediate site of the incarnation and its consequent holy places, distinguishing the place of theophany was especially pertinent. Two churches in Jerusalem, the Holy Sepulchre in the walled city (335 CE), with its Anastasis Rotunda and basilica separated by an open-air courtyard, and the Nativity in Bethlehem (ca. 326 CE), I having an octagon adjoining a fi ve-aisled basilica, are good examples of this sort of architecture. On the Mount of Olives, the basilical Eleona Church built by Constantine (ca. 333 CE) and the round Church of the Ascension, constructed some decades later (ca. 378 eE), are separate structures; yet they may be understood as another combination of the central and the basilical, related in meaning and part of a group of monasteries and sanctuaries isolated from the rest of the city below (Pullan FC). Andre Grabar's monumental work, Martyrium (1972; cf. Shepherd 1967: 71; Krautheimer 1986: 64), makes clear that such buildings or complexes are hardly an empty formalistic play of circle and rectangle, but that they represent
Bethlehem, although a separate town, was part of the Jerusalem liturgy and ritual topography.
ASCENT AND DESCENT
an attempt
to
309
orient anew the early Christian content of an architecture
known from the pagan basilicas and martyria of Rome. In the above three church complexes of the Jerusalem ritual topography, each structure involves a rock, expressed as a cave or mountain, or both, by which the new Christian content may be understood, for each Jerusalem cave/mountain embodies a critical portion of scriptural narrative: in Bethlehem a cave commemorates the place of the nativity, in the Holy Sepulchre there is the rocky hill of the cross and the sepulchre of Christ, and on Olivet we find the cave of the mysteries in the Eleona Church and the rock of the ascension at the top of the mount in the church by the same name. Clearly the fourth century was a time of transition and reinterpretation, and, as might be expected, broad shifts in cultural content caused peculiarities in architecture, and in this the Jerusalem churches were no exception. This appears to be true for the Constantinian Church of the Nativity, with the situation exacerbated by only partial knowledge of the building revealed to us primarily through archaeological excavations. This work, carried out between 1932 and 1934 by the British Department of Antiquities in Palestine (Harvey 1935; Harvey and Harvey 1938; Richmond 1936; 1938a; 1938b), was most enlightening for what it did uncover, but it was incomplete. The structure that stands on the site today is the second church; Richmond's belief that it was Justinianic (1938b) is still generally accepted (Tsafrir 1993: 8-10, 13), but there is some evidence for an earlier date (KuhnelI988: 2-3), perhaps the second half of the fifth century (Restle 1966: col. 611). With respect to the Constantinian church, which is the concern of the present discussion, modern scholarship has focussed on reconstruction (Harvey and Harvey 1938; Richmond 1936; 1938a; Vincent 1936; 1937; Crowfoot 1941; Hamilton 1947; Bagatti 1952), and in doing so has highlighted the peculiarities of its architectural planning, particularly that of the octagon in relation to the rest of the church. There is no doubt that in this case archaeology is the first key to understanding and that without further excavations many questions will be left unanswered; nonetheless, it is also true that the Church of the Nativity was a significant part of a wider movement of cultural and religious reorientation that had profound effects upon the architecture of late antiquity. The development of a Christian ritual topography in Jerusalem based on incarnational theology provided a unifying content for each church (Pullan
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1993; FC), and it is important to situate the Bethlehem church within this background in order to gain certain insights into the role and meaning of its most prominent part, the octagon. The architectural problem appears in the eastern end of the church, for the rest of the building was relatively straightforward and typical ofits time and place with a large porticoed atrium leading to an almost square basilica (27.5 x 26.8 metres); this configuration was changed in the rebuilding only to the extent of adding one bay in the nave and a narthex. But at the east end of the church, which is today a triconch of equal-sized apses built over the cave of the nativity, the excavations of the 19305 uncovered an octagon built over the cave and abutting the earlier basilica (Fig. 1), which was probably covered with a conical dome and oculus (Hamilton 1947: 15; Krautheimer 1986: 59-60). An excellent analogy to the octagon may be found in the late fourthcentury apse mosaic of the Santa Pudenziana Church in Rome (Fig. 2) where, to the right side of the Christ figure, a polygonal building identified as the Church of the Nativity is shown with a conical dome and an oculus (Pullan
1997). Reconstructions of the church by Hamilton (1947: pI. 3) and Krautheimer (1986: 59) are indebted to it. All of this octagonal structure was demolished and replaced by the new church, with even the cave seemingly not surviving in the same form (Hamilton 1947: 85). The function of the octagon is unclear to us today. It is the obvious place for the altar, but excavations show that the roof of the rocky cave below protruded into the middle of the floor, leaving little place for an altar or room for the clergy. The top of the protrusion was punctured with a circular opening having an internal radius of 1.95 metres; two steps, octagonal in plan, led up and around the hole that, as far as can be assessed by markings in the stone, was surrounded by a screen (Harvey 1935: 25) through or over which one would have looked down into the opening to the place of the birth in the cave below. Thus the real centre of interest in the church was not eastward, to a dubiously surmised altar, but downward into the cave. There is no reason to doubt Jerome, who lived in Bethlehem at the end of the fourth century, when he states that the manger in the cave served as an altar (Ep. 147.4); nonetheless, the cave of the nativity was a full storey beneath the octagon and almost that distance below the nave. From the nave no one would have been able to see or have much contact with the lower level and one must question
ASCENT AND DESCENT
311
how effective or convenient the liturgy might have been in such a space. The Itinerarium of the fourth-century pilgrim Egeria (24.2-4, 10; 33.2; 35.2; 43.1) leaves no doubt that caves in the Anastasis Rotunda and the Eleona Church played an integral part in the liturgy, but at the former there was no level change and at the latter, although the grotto was nearly a storey lower, there was a large bema above it to accommodate the altar. The peculiar configuration of the Bethlehem church has provoked a variety of comments and unconvincing suggestions for its use: attempts, like that of Vincent (1936: 564-65), to demonstrate how the Bethlehem octagon could feasibly have accommodated an altar, tend to highlight the intractability of the problem rather than provide a solution to it; Bagatti's proposal that an octagon never existed and that the structure found was simply part of a polygonal apse (1952: 9-54) has found little support. Crowfoot (1941: 27-29) believes that no altar existed and that the church was built for pilgrimage rather than liturgical purposes. Mythically, pilgrimage to the cave of the nativity began with the Magi, making the site the oldest such destination and an obvious place for fourth-century re-enactment of the veneration of the birth; but Egeria, among others, demonstrates in the descriptions of her active participation in the liturgy that at that early stage it is difficult to make a distinction between pilgrimage and liturgical churches. Certainly at Bethlehem liturgical use cannot be ruled out completely. In her Itinerarium (25.8, 12, 42) Egeria states that the overnight vigil on the fortieth day after Easter was held in Bethlehem and that the church also hosted the Epiphany services. These occasions may have been relatively few in the fourth-century calendar of the Jerusalem stational liturgy (Baldovin 1987: 50); nonetheless, they were major feast days that emptied Jerusalem of Christian worshippers. Presumably the church also accommodated local worship on a modest but more regular basis. Most significantly, we know from Egeria's account and the slightly later Armenian Lectionary that fourth-century worship was peripatetic, for which the architecture of the Church of the Nativity would have been quite suitable. Congregants may well have moved from the nave to circumambulate the octagon and view the manger below, and even a trip down to the cave seems a possibility in a way similar to the Holy Week celebrations described by Egeria (37.2), when each individual was invited to approach the Hill of Golgotha in order to kiss the wood of the cross.
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In any case, more extensive liturgical requirements for larger crowds appear to have become more of a priority over the next 200 years, for when the church was rebuilt the eastern end was altered considerably. The constraints of the fourth-century sanctuary are brought home when they are compared to that of the later church visible today. Here the triconch that replaced the octagon has plenty of room for an altar and clergy, no puncture in the floor, and, despite the present iconostasis, it is open to and continuous with the nave (Richmond 1938bj Vincent 1937: 104-15). Movement was likely still the norm: stairs on either side of the sanctuary would have provided an entry and exit to pilgrims in a way that was already common in pilgrimage churches (Krautheimer 1980: 85-86), and the fact that the seventh-century Annenian
Description of the Holy Places (1) describes altars both in the triconch and below in the cave confirms the peripatetic use of the church as well as the continued significance of the verticality of the sanctuary. However much the first Church of the Nativity may have been restricted in some of its liturgical functions, it was admired for its beauty and rich decoration during the great holy days (Egeria, Itin. 25.8). With its octagon and conical dome, it would have appeared relatively autonomous, dramatic, and undoubtedly the most significant landmark in Bethlehem at the time. Rather than consider it an awkward mistake it is worthwhile to ask whether issues other than a convenient liturgy came into play in its design. The modern tendency to emphasize the functional problems of the liturgical space is onedimensional and neglects the content of the architecture. If instead we consider that function is not an end in itself but one factor that contributes to the overall meaning of the building, then we must ask whether the discontinuity between the octagon and the basilica might be not just tolerated but desired-and, if so, for what reason. 2 A number of factors indicate that the octagon was perceived and treated as a well-differentiated and even a separate space. The aisles, for instance, ended in small chambers with apparently no direct connection to the octagon. 2 "Form follows function" has informed much of modern architectural theory and analysis. This has been particularly misleading for understanding the architecture of traditional cultures, where content and meaning are paramount and inclusive. Recent architectural theory, particularly that which is dependent upon phenomenology and hermeneutics, has attempted to address this problem: see, for example, Carl (1991; 1992), Harries (1997), Rykwert (1976) and Vesely (1987).
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313
From the east end of the nave three steps led up to the octagon and between the two was a wall pierced by three doorways. Far more substantial than the ubiquitous chancel screen, this wall stood as a triumphal arch, most explicitly marking the threshold between the congregational nave and the more holy space of the martyria, and metaphorically heralding the future Christian victory set in motion by Christ's birth. Fragments of mosaic flooring found in situ in the church also enhance the autonomy of the octagon: the geometric patterns in the nave are augmented by a vine rinceau and panels with birds in the octagon, which Ernst Kitzinger suggests are indicative of the reappearance of a more "emphatic pictorial repertory" (1970: 641); as well, the tesserae in the octagon are smaller and finer than in the nave (Harvey 1935: 10). Embedded in the north side of the three steps up to the octagon, a small staircase descends in a north-south direction and then turns ninety degrees to the east to enter the grotto below. Although an exact date for this is unknown, it seems to have been built as part of the Constantinian church (Harvey 1935: 18), presumably to provide access to the cave (Bagatti
1952: 47). Kitzinger (1970: 642-45)
points out that two mosaic panels were set into the floor on either side of the stairs with the word IXeT~ inscribed on the north panel next to where the stair down is entered. It is an asymmetry that seems to signal apotropaical\y the threshold to the shrine below, marking it off from the nave. One would naturally expect some articulation of the sanctuary to distinguish it from the nave, but here there appears to be a fairly stringent separation of the two. This is more in keeping with the almost separate buildings represented in the Santa Pudenziana mosaic, although it must be admitted that the depiction of the basilical part of the building has been heavily restored in the mosaic (Matthiae 1967: 2.55-76). In the autonomy of the octagon we find ourselves faced once again with its primary role as a martynum: the cave existed as "witness" to the birthplace of Christ and the beginning of the incarnation, and it is this perceived truth that was embodied in the octagon shrine and that is central to its meaning. But to understand this further it is necessary to widen the context in order to consider how incarnational theology was manifested at Bethlehem. Patristic texts understand the birth of Christ as man-God to have come from opposite directions: many writers noted the birthplace in the cave (Prot.
las. 17·18;
Origen, Contra Cels. 1.51; Eusebius, Oem. Ev. 3.2.97; 7.2J43b;
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Laud. Const. 9.17; Jerome, Ep. 46.11; 108.10; Socrates, His£. Ecel. 1.17; Sozomen, Hist. Ecel. 2.2}, which confirmed that "the truth hath sprung out of the earth" Gerome, Ep. 58.3); but this mystery also required the descent of Christ from heaven to earth. Again this was often discussed Oustin, I Apol. 35.4-6; Eusebius, Dem. Ev. 6.13.274d-275a; Cyril, Cat. 14.23; 14.30; Ephrem,
Hymn 4.14), sometimes with a play on the Hebrew meaning of Bethlehem as "House of Bread," comparing the birth ofChrisr to manna falling from heaven (Eusebius, Dem. Ev. 7.2.349a; Epiphanius, Mens. et Pond. 30; Jerome, Ep. 108.10; Hom. 23 on Ps. 95 [96]; Hom. 64 on Ps. 84 [85]). It was clear that in this idea of Christ's ascent and descent there was a paradox, upon which Jerome elaborates: [Christ) grew up out of the earth since he was born as man; he has looked down from heaven since God is always in heaven .... He who was born of earth is always in heaven .... He sprang out of the earth and looked down from heaven to fulfill his justice and take pity on the work that he wrought. (Hom. 17 on Ps. 84 [85J; trans. M. L. Ewald) This is not an opposition or polarization for which there is no reconciliation: instead, Jerome puts the matter in terms of the simultaneity of action in the birth and the full reciprocity of heaven and earth. Birth "from the earth" was the more visible and obvious condition, with the fecundity of the cave as a fitting host for the birth believed to initiate Christian regeneration of the world. In his Hymns on the Nativity Ephrem makes an explicit link: "[F]rom a Virgin womb, as if from a rock, sprouted the seed from which harvests have come" (4.85). But the subtler idea of descent from the sky was critical for the place of Bethlehem in the wider ritual topography, as explained in the mid-fourth century by Cyril of Jerusalem: "For he descended from heaven to Bethlehem, but from Mount Olivet he ascended to heaven; he began in Bethlehem his struggles for men, but on Olivet he was crowned for them" (Cat. 14.23; trans.
L. P. McCaulay and A. A. Stephenson). In effect the whole Jerusalem landscape is interpreted in terms of a distinct verticality, and it is clear that the notion of descent at Bethlehem is critical for the wider meaning ofJerusalem topography. The two caves at Bethlehem and the Mount of Olives work as inversions of one another: Eusebius asserts that at the Eleona Church Christ ascended to heaven from a cave (V. Canst. 3.41;
cf. 3.43; Dem. Ev. 6.18.288d-289a), marking the end of the incarnation as
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315
against the beginning heralded by Christ's descent from the sky into the cave at Bethlehem. Each of these ascent/descent locations may be seen as a vertical continuum between cave and sky in a complementary ontology. In this verticality the deeper meaning of the Bethlehem octagon becomes visible. To the best of our knowledge, the architecture of the octagon was made up of three distinct vertical parts-cave, octagonal building above and conical dome-with the major architectural and decorative components of each part serving to express its place within the whole. The chthonic and regenerative was fittingly embodied in the cave below ground level; along with all the aspects of human activity, such as liturgy and pilgrimage, found at the intermediary level, the floor of the octagon was paved with a group of fine mosaic panels configured to fill the octagon with geometric, vegetal and animal themes (Harvey 1935: figs. 102, 103); above this was the celestial dome. Unsurprisingly, the architectural and decorative order of the octagon and cave represents a stratified and cosmological order. In the building there were ruptures at two levels: the circular opening in the floor which looked down to the cave, and aligned over it the oculus in the conical dome, illustrated in the Santa Pudenziana mosaic, and probably what Jerome was referring to when he asked: "Where are the roofs that intercept the sky?" (Ep. 46.11). In these two openings, a shaft of natural light would have streamed down into the octagon and into the cave below, manifesting in perpetuity the "great light [which] appeared over the birth" (Prot. las. 19). The eight-sided structure, itself symbolically linked to the baptistry and thus to rebirth (Krautheimer 1969), here enclosed a luminous axis mundi which marked the Birth. It is in fact immediately recognizable from Mircea Eliade's characterization of a holy place as a break in planes, possible only at "the centre of the universe," that allows communication between heaven and earth (1959: 36-37). In the architecture of the octagon, which links the cave and the dome by light, we find the primary theological images of Christ's birth from earth and from heaven simultaneously, but it is the cave/mountain bathed in light which is central. Caves and mountains were common features in the cosmological structure and existence of many cultures (Clifford 1972; Eliade 1989; Miller 1982). Rather than just complements of inside and out, dark and light, concave and convex, they represent the closest point to heaven and the navel of the earth, as well as being receptacles of death and points of creation. They are
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archetypes of space and time and in each the other is present; that is to say, the mountain is cosmic and the cave celestial (Lehmann 1945). In this fundamental unity ofcave and mountain it becomes possible to see that neither ascent to heaven from a cave on Olivet nor descent to the one at Bethlehem is a contradiction in terms. The cave as a harmony of tension in opposition figured in Porphyry's De antro nympharum (29); this tension, he states, is due more to the nature of the cave's material than its shape (6-7, 9). The reciprocity of matter and light was a theme taken up by Christianity, reflected poetically by Eusebius when he describes Christ as "an earthen vessel, like a lamp, shot forth to all people the rays of the Divine light of the Word" (Dem.
Ev. 4.16.188). As a coherent way of structuring the world, it became particularly influential in Pseudo-Dionysius's correlation of hierarchical descent and ascent, in which the human soul is participant as the mediation between matter and light (Cel. Hier. 301-304). At Bethlehem, earth as a life-giving source, and light as the highest visible manifestation of the divine, structure the space of the octagon: there the rock favoured by God Gerome, Ep. 46.11) would have stood, in the centre of the floor and bathed in light as a sacred mountain. In the centre of the octagonal building with a conical dome the rock in fact was symbolically a mountain within a mountain. The view from the octagon down into the cave would have revealed, by the light from above, the mysteries of the earth, which were in turn articulated by light and dark, for the manger glistened with gold and silver (Eucherius 127.11) and with "the shining slab which received the infant God" (Sophronius, Anaer. 19.45). But most important was that in the cave "the poor crevice of the earth [where] the creator of the heavens was born ... here he was pointed out by the star" Oerome, Ep. 46.11); from those fecund depths the view would have been upward through the "mountain" to the distant divine light where once the star had shone in the sky above. It is a vision much favoured in art (Bagatti 1980). On early Christian pilgrims' souvenirs, such as the Bethlehem vignette on a painted reliquary box showing "Scenes from the Life of Christ" (sixth century) in the Vatican (Beckwith 1988: 61), we find depictions of Mary reclining upon her mattress with the baby Jesus, the domed roof of the cave, and, in an oculus. the star. Once translated into art, the nativity scene became one of the most loved Christian images.
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There is a directness and a physicality to such representations of the birth, akin to the explicit images of the cave/mountain and light in the octagon. From inside the fourth-century grotto the pilgrim/congregant's involvement as witness to the re-enactment of the birth Oerome, Ep. 108.10) would have brought to light the regenerative powers that come from the earth, while the view from within the mountain up to the light of the heavens would have recalled the etemallight beyond, which marked the interval and distance between human and divine. The threefold division within the continuum between heaven and earth-from cave to mountain to dome-light-was most explicit in the architecture. This is appropriate at the site where the incarnation began and the physicality of Christ was paramount. It was a grounding of the theology in the architecture, from which we can glean the content and meaning of the Church of the Nativity.
CHURCH OF THE NATIVITY BETHLEHEM
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318
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Fig. 2 Apse mosaic in the Church of Santa Pudenziana, Rome
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319
References Bagatti, Bellarmino
1952
Gli antichi edifici sacri di Bedemme. Jerusalem: Studium Biblicum
Franciscanum. "La 'Luce' nell' Iconografia della Nativita di Gestl." Liber Annuus 30: 233-50. Baldovin, John F. 1987 The Urban Character of Christian Worship. Rome: Pontificum Institutum Studiorum Orientalium. Beckwith, John 1988 Early Christian and Byzantine Art. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Carl, Peter 1991 "Architecture and Time: A Prolegomena." }\A Files 22: 48-65. 1992 "Ornament and Time." AA Files 23: 49-64. Clifford, Richard J. 1972 The Cosmic Mountain in Canaan and the New Testament. Cambridge, MA: Harvard Semitic Monographs. Crowfoot, J. W. 1941 Early Churches in Palestine. London: British Academy. Deichmann, Friedrich Wilhelm 1946 "Die Lage der konstantinischen Basilika der heiligen Agnes an der Via Nomentana." Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 22: 213-34. Eliade, Mircea 1959 [1957] The Sacred and the Profane. The Nature of Religion. Trans. Willard R. Trask. New YorklLondon: Harcourt Brace and Jovanovich. 1989 [1949] The Myth of the Eternal Return. Trans. Willard R. Trask. London: Arkana. Grabar, Andre 1972 Martyrium. 2 vols. London: Variorum. Hamilton, R. W. 1947 The Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem. Jerusalem: Palestine Department of Antiquities. Harries, Karsten 1997 The Ethical Function of Architecture. Cambridge, MAILondon: MIT Press. Harvey, William 1935 Structural Survey of the Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem. London! Oxford: Milford/Oxford University Press. 1980
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Harvey, William and John H. Harvey "Recent Discoveries at the Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem." 1938 Archaeologia 87: 7·17. Kitzinger, Ernst "The Threshold of the Holy Shrine: Observations on Floor Mosaics 1970 at Antioch and Bethlehem." In Patrick Granfield and Josef A. Jungmann (eds.), Kyriakon. Festschrift Johannes Quasten, 2.639·47. Munster: Aschendorff. Krautheimer, Richard 1969 [1942] "Introduction to an 'Iconography of Medieval Architecture.'" In Richard Krautheimer, Studies in Early Christian, Medieval, and Renaissance Art, 115·50. Trans. Alfred Frazer et al. New York/ London: New York University PresslUniversity of Landon Press. 1980 Rome: Profile of a City, 312·1308. Princeton: Princeton University Press. 1986 [1965] Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture. Fourth ed. New Haven: Yale University Press. Kuhnel, Gustav 1988 Wall Painting in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem. Berlin: Gebr. Mann. Lehmann, Karl "The Dome of Heaven." Art Bulletin 27: 1·27. 1945 Matthiae, Guglielmo 1967 Mosaici Medioeva/e delle Chiese di Roma. 2 vols. Rome: Istituto puligrafico dello Stato. Miller, Naomi Heavenly Caves: Reflections on the Garden Grotto. New York: Braziller. 1982 Pullan, Wendy "Mapping Time and Salvation: Early Christian Pilgrimage to 1993 Jerusalem." In Gavin D. Flood (ed.), Mapping Invisible Worlds, 23·40. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. "Jerusalem from Alpha to Omega in the Santa Pudenziana Mosaic." 1997 Jewish Art 23/24: 405·17. The Transformation of the Urban Order in Early Christian Jerusalem. FC Restle, Marcell 1966 "Bethlehem." In Klaus Wessel (ed.), Reallexikon zur byzantinischen Kunst, 1.599·612. Stuttgart: Hiersemann. Richmond, E. T. 1936 "Basilica of the Nativity: Discovery of the Remains of an Earlier Church." Quarterly of the Department of Antiquities in Palestine 5: 75·81.
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1938a
1938b
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"The Church of the Nativity: The Plan of the Constantinian Building." Quarterly of the Department of Antiquities in Palestine 6: 6366. "The Church of the Nativity: The Alterations Carried Out by Justinian." Quarterly of the Department ofAntiquities in Palestine 6: 67- n.
Rykwert, Joseph
1976 The Idea of a Town. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Shepherd, Massey H. 1967 "Liturgical Expressions of the Constaminian Triumph." Dumbarton Oaks Papers 22: 59-78. Tsafrir, Yoram 1993 "The Development of Ecclesiastical Architecture in Palestine." In Yoram Tsafrir (ed.) , Ancient Churches Revealed, 1-16. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society. Vesely, Dalibor 1987 "Architecture and the Poetics of Representation." Daidalos 25: 2436. Vincent, L. H. "Bethleem, sanctuaire de la nativite, d'apres les fouilles recentes." 1936 1937
Revue Biblique 45: 544-74. "Bethleem." Revue Biblique 46: 93-121.
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PART FOUR
TEXT AND ARTIFACT IN THE WORLD OF LATE..ANTIQUE JUDAISM
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19
BETTER HOMES AND GARDENS: WOMEN AND DOMESTIC SPACE IN THE BOOKS OF JUDITH AND SUSANNA ADELE REIN HARTZ
Archaeology holds a strong attraction for students of early Judaism and Christianity. The material remains of Second Temple Judaism not only are intrinsically interesting but also provide comfortingly solid evidence of a tumultuous period about which our textual sources can be maddeningly elusive and contradictory. Of course, archaeological artifacts and structures are themselves open to interpretation, for which literary documents are a crucial foundation. 1 But in the current intellectual climate in which fundamental assumptions about texts as historical evidence have crumbled, the walls, towers and other residue of Second Temple building projects provide at the very least some reassurance that there is a history to be recovered, constructed and studied. For many of us, Peter Richardson has been a guide to some of the major archaeological sites from this period. In particular, his studies of Herod's architectural oeuvre have helped us to understand how large buildings loomed not only in the physical landscape but also in the political, cultural, religious and social terrain of Palestine and the Diaspora at the turn of the eras (Richardson 1996: 197,202). Peter's claim for the importance of bUildings for the understanding of Second Temple Judaism is not simply a function of his own architectural and archaeological interests, but is supported by the ubiquity and centrality of buildings-temples, tents, houses, fortresses-in Jewish texts from this period. Buildings abound not only in historical works such as the writings ofJosephus, but also in literary texts such as the apocryphal novels. 2
Peter Richardson's analysis of Herod's building program, for example, depends not only on architectural study of the archaeological sites, but also on the descriptions of Herod and his buildings in the works ofJosephus (Richardson 1996: 177). 2 For a discussion of the term "novel" to describe these ancient narratives see Wills 1995: 5-9.
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My aim in this essay is to look at the houses, fortresses and other constructed spaces described in the books of Judith and Susanna. My particular concern will be the domestic spaces with which the iemale protagonists are most closely associated within their respective stories. I will argue that in both of these books, the literary representations of domestic space serve both a narrative and a symbolic function. Within the narrative, descriptions of domestic space contribute to characterization and plot development. As symbols, these spaces themselves house not only the women who dwell within them but also the people Israel itself.
1. Judith The Book ofJudith is a lengthy novella probably written in Hebrew during the latter part of the second century BeE. 3The story is sd during a dire, if fictional, military crisis facing the town of Bethulia in Judea at the hands of Nebuchadnezzar's Assyrian army led by his general Holofemes. 4 Judith, a wealthy widow, saves Bethulia when she devises and successfully carries out a plan for killing Holofemes. The book opens with a description of the impressive fortifications surrounding Ecbatana, built by King Arphaxad of Medea (1:1-4) against the forces of King Nebuchadnezzar of Assyria. Nebuchadnezzar's war efforts against Medea are aided by allies in the hill country and Mesopotamia (1:5-6), but his attempts to enlist other peoples, such as those ofJerusalem, Egypt and Ethiopia, are spumed (1:7-10). In great anger, Nebuchadnezzar vows revenge. First, he captures the towers of Ecbatana, destroys its markets, turns "its glory into disgrace" and kills Arphaxad himself (l: 11-15). Then, after resting and feasting for several months, Nebuchadnezzar begins his war of retribution. The second and third chapters recite the successes ofHolofernes, the chief general of Nebuchadnezzar's army (2:4). By chapter four Holofernes has his sights set on Judca.The Israelites of] udea are terrified for] erusalem and for the Temple; they have only recently returned from exile and reconsecrated the
3 Moore (1985: 67-70) dates Judith to the end of the reign ofJohn Hyrcanus I (135-104 BCE) or the beginning of the reign of Alexander Jannaeus (103-78 BCE). 4 The reference to Nebuchadnezzar as the Assyrian emperor signals that Judith is not historiography (d. Wills 1995: 134-.35; Moore 1985: 38-49).
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Temple, altar and sacred vessels (4:1-3). The people mourn and pray (4:8-15); meanwhile Holofernes lays siege to Bethulia, the gateway to Judea (4:6-7). In despair, the people urge their leadership to surrender (7: 19-28). Uzziah, the leader of Bethulia, decides to hold out for five more days, but promises that if no help comes from God in that time, they will indeed surrender (7:29-31). By this point in the story, the reader, along with the frightened Bethulians, is suitably impressed with the military prowess of Assyria against which no walls or fortresses, however well constructed, can remain standing. If the sturdy walls of Ecbatana could not withstand Assyrian onslaught, how would the meagre towers of Bethulia survive? The narrative focus now shifts to Judith, a wealthy and pious widow who lives alone in a tent on the roof of her dead husband's house. Both this Jewish woman and her rooftop abode seem fragile in comparison with the armies and fortifications of King Nebuchadnezzar, and the nations whom he has defeated. This contrast anticipates the direction of the primary plot of this book. The well-armed soldiers and the thick, strong walls of Ecbatana cannot withstand the Assyrian army, but a tent-dwelling unarmed woman of a small and relatively powerless but pious nation destroys the Assyrian general with two strokes of his own sword, thereby inverting the more conventional correlations among masculinity, strength and impregnability. The architectural imagery therefore reinforces the book's contention that only piety and faith in God can aid Israel against her enemies (5: 17). References to and descriptions of constructed spaces also act as a vehicle for the characterization of Judith herself. The rooftop tent in which we first encounter Judith mirrors her own supposed fragility as a woman alone. It also, however, conveys her autonomy and her inner strength. Although her tentbound existence is explicitly connected to her extended mourning tor her dead husband, it also demonstrates her independence of male control and protection. At the same time, Judith's self-imposed isolation and asceticism testify to an extraordinary self-discipline. While living in close proximity to the house she shared with her husband, she eschews its comforts except when religiously mandated to celebrate. Further, Judith lives not only apart from a male partner but at a distance from all other people except her personal maid. The rooftop location is as far as Judith can be from the populace at large which is suffering the effects of the Assyrian siege. As Amy-Jill Levine notes, this high
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point defines Judith spatially as superior to the rest of Bethulia. While the women and men of Bethulia are fainting from thirst on the streets of Bethulia. Judith distributes neither her wealth. which she administers with care, nor her water, with which she bathes in preparation for her encounter with Holofernes (10:3; Levine 1992: 22). Finally, the rooftop tent also testifies to her high political status. The tent is thus both a place of mourning and a place of meeting. Upon hearing that the elders of the besieged Bethulia are preparing to surrender to the Assyrians, Judith summons them to her tent. They come and listen meekly to her pious and eloquent chastisement (8:9-36). That they must ascend to the tent is not only their concession to her self-imposed seclusion but also acknowledgment of her authority. While some of this authority may stem from the wealth that she manages, the religious content of her sermon to the elders suggests that its ultimate source is divine. Like the content of this sermon, the rooftop location implies Judith's proximity to God. This element comes to the fore in her lengthy prayer, during which she asks God to bless the audacious plan of action on which she is about to embark (9:1-14). This prayer underscores the strict piety ofJudith upon which the narrator has already remarked (8:8): "No one spoke ill of her, for she feared God with great devotion." The description of Judith's tent is therefore instrumental in establishing her personality and credibility as a figure who has the political authority, singleness of purpose, strength of character and divine backing to carry out the audacious deed which is about
to
be described. Also significant for her
characterization is the contrast between this domestic space and the structures associated with the two most important men in Judith's life: the house of her husband Manasseh, and the elaborate tent in which Judith's adversary, Holofernes, dwells during the siege of Bethulia. The house upon which Judith's tent is perched is initially referred to as Judith's own (8:5). Whether this house was technically "owned" by her husband during his lifetime, or whether it was in Judith's family estate, is unclear at this point. The latter possibility is suggested by the narrator's note that Manasseh belonged
to
Judith's tribe and family (8:2). The former
possibility is confirmed, however, at the book's conclusion, in which the house is described as her husband's (16:23). The house is the place in which Judith
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and her husband lived together until his death. Judith's removal from the house during her lengthy period of mourning was not required by Jewish law or custom. Rather, it appears to be an expression of her devotion to her husband, and a symbol of her exile from or rejection of the luxuries and pleasures that she had known during his lifetime. After Manasseh's death, Judith reenters her house only on the eve of the sabbath and new moon, on the sabbath and new moon, and on the festivals and days of rejoicing (10:2), occasions when she also sets aside her customary practice of fasting (8:6). After meeting the elders, however, Judith goes down into her house for a purpose other than festal celebration; that is, to bathe, anoint herself, and dress her hair and her body in preparation for her encounter with Holofernes. This reentry is described as "going down" (Ktx"CiPT], 10:2) emphasizing the spatial relationship between the house and the tent, but it also intimates Judith's descent from a higher to a lower level of piety. This descent too is in service of God and the covenant people, since it is essential to her plan for saving Bethulia and by extension all of] udea from Assyrian conquest. These activities-bathing, anointing, dressing in finery-identify the house as a place of sensuality dedicated to God and within the framework-though potentially close
to
the margins-of accepted
morality. The sensual associations of the house therefore contrast with the isolation and asceticism of the tent. A similar contrast is apparent between the tent in which Judith dwells and the tent in which she encounters Holofernes. Judith's tent is a long-term and spare home; Holofernes's tent is a temporary but lavish dwelling. Judith's abode is associated with fasting and mourning; Holofernes's living space bespeaks decadence, in its elaborate appointment (10:21) and in the activities with which it is associated, namely, banqueting (12:1), resting (10:21) and potentially-and, from Holofernes's point of view, hopefully-sexual intercourse (12: 12). Most telling, perhaps, is the placement ofJudith's tent at the highest point possible, on the roof of a house in a city on a mountaintop (7:10), in contrast to the location of Holofernes's tent in an encampment at the bottom of a valley (7:3; 10:10). The narrative segment that traces Judith's bold act is plotted by her movements through these various abodes. We meet Judith as the pious and devoted woman who wants only to save her people from the Assyrians. As she descends into the house, she takes on the trappings of the beautiful, sensual
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and seductive woman in order to act out the role of traitor and seductress. The drama unfolds as she descends from the town ofBethulia, through the narrow pass down into the valley encampment of the Assyrian army, and finally to the entrance of Holofernes's tent (10: 10_17). 5 Her enny into the tent (lO:20), which is at the geographical nadir of the landscape, marks the point at which Judith is
also in the greatest danger both physically-for as an enemy she risks death-and morally-for the possibility exists that she will indeed betray her people and her piety by providing strategic information and sleeping with the general. As she enters Holofernes's tent, the latter possibility is articulated by Holofernes, who responds excitedly to the self-declared purpose of Judith's visit: "If you do as you have said, your God shall be my God, and you shall live in the house of King Nebuchadnezzar and be renowned throughout the whole world" (11:23; emphasis added). But as it develops, the plot in fact reverses Holofernes's proposition. It is not Judith who remains with Holofernes, or his king, but rather the general, as represented by his severed head, his tent and all of his valuable possessions, who returns with Judith, to her city and, by extension, to the higher authority to whom she reports, namely, God. Judith's charade is at an end at the moment that she decapitates Holofernes. Her brief and daring episode successfully completed, she ascends again to Bethulia. The narrator notes that, despite many offers, Judith does not marry but remains on her husband's estate as she had before (16:21-23). It would seem, however, that in one important respect her post-Holofernes life differs from her previous existence: she does not return to the rooftop tent but rather grows old in her husband's house (16;23).6 Given the narrator's earlier emphasis on the tent and the acts of mourning that took place within it, it is significant that neither the tent nor her asceticism is mentioned at the conclusion. This omission suggests that the death of Holofernes has released her from the extended mourning period in which we encountered her upon her introduction in chapter eight. Indeed, the death of Holofernes-by decapitation-is a fitting conclusion to the period of mourning begun with the
5 Dundes (1975: 28-29) argues that, in structural terms,Judith usurps Holofernes's maleness and takes on the role of the invader not only of his tent but of his person. Wills (1995: 149) suggests that Holofemes's tent might be viewed symbolica!ly as his vagina, with the mosquito net, which must be torn, as the hymen. 6 Craven (1983: lIS) assumes that she does return to the tent, but this is not indicated in the text (16:23).
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death of her husband Manasseh, who died when the heat came "upon his head" (btl 'tT]V K€Q>aA. 1lV, 8:3). Judith's final resting place, her husband's burial cave, restores her in death to her husband's side (16:23). This summary suggests that the constructed spaces with which Judith is associated-the tent, Manasseh's house, Holofernes's encampment and, finally, Manasseh's burial cave-mirror Judith's own life and person. In the spare confines of her rooftop tent she is ascetic, close to God, and devoted to, although at some remove from, her people. As she descends into the house and then further to Holofernes's tent she takes on the persona of a beautiful and seductive traitor to her God and her people. After she kills Holofernes and saves her people, she participates fully in the rejoicing, and the pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the Temple. When she returns to the house, she is no longer in mourning but continues to belong to her husband's memory by growing old in his house and being buried in his tomb. The use of domestic space to represent a female figure has parallels in the Song of Songs, in which the physical features of the female lover are described in architectural terms. The lover's neck is likened to an ivory tower (Cant 7:4;
cf. 4:4), her eyes to pools in Heshbon by the gate ofBath-rabbim, and her nose to a tower of Lebanon, overlooking Damascus (Cant 7:5). But the symbolic use of domestic space may go one step further. Judith is not only an actor in this drama but also represents "the Israelites living in Judea" adt 4: 1). Ample precedent for the use of female imagery to represent the people Israel is found in biblical literature. In Isaiah 37:22 and Jeremiah 14: 17, for example, the prophet refers to Zion and Jerusalem as God's virgin daughter; in Jeremiah 2: 12, the Lord compares Israel's former devotion to the love of a bride. Isaiah 54:4-8 speaks of exiled Israel poignantly as a disgraced and abandoned widow whom God, her husband, will now call "like a wife forsaken and grieved in spirit, like the wife of a man's youth when she is cast oft:" Similarly, the identification ofJudith and Judea can be readily supported by passages from the text (Levine 1992: 17 j Alonso-Schakel and Wuellner 1975: 15), The length ofJudith's mourning (three years and four months, 8:4) can be associated with
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the length of the siege of Bethulia (thirty-four days, 7:20).7 More directly, Judith speaks of herself/Judea in the first person: He boasted that he would burn up my territory, and kill my young men with the sword, and dash my infants to the ground, and seize my children as booty, and take my virgins as spoil. But the Lord Almighty has foiled them by the hand of a woman. For their mighty one did not fall by the hands of the young men, nor did the sons of the Titans strike him down, nor did tall giants set upon him; but Judith daughter of Merari with the beauty of her countenance outdid him. (16:4-6) This passage suggests that Judith not only acts on behalf of the people but also symbolizes the people as a whole. If this is the case, then the spaces with which Judith is associated either positively (rooftop tent, husband's house) and negatively (Holofernes's tent) may also be tied to the physical and spiritual situation of the people Israel at the same time as they define Judith's own physical and spiritual state. An integral relationship among constructed space, female imagery and the people Israel is implied in Lamentations. Lamentations 1: 1 reads: "How lonely sits the city that once was full of people! How like a widow she has become, she that was great among the nations! She that was a princess among the provinces has become a vassal." According to Lamentations 2:2-13, the Lord has destroyed without mercy all the dwellings of Jacob; in his wrath he has broken down the strongholds of daughter Judah; he has brought down to the ground in dishonour the kingdom and its rulers ... . [HIe has killed all in whom we took pride in the tent of daughter Zion ... . The Lord determined to lay in ruins the wall of daughter Zion; ... he caused rampart and wall to lament; her gates have sunk into the ground; he has ruined and broken her bars. The type of exile portrayed in Lamentations represents the worst fears of the Bethulians in the Book of Judith. Judith's situation in her rooftop tent, in mourning for her husband and in exile from his home, anticipates the situation that will befall "the Israelites in Judea" vis-a.-vis the Temple, and the land of Judea as a whole, should the Assyrians succeed in theif conquest. As Judith
7 Levine (1992: 20) points out that the forty-month period of Judith's mourning also evokes another period of exile, that i" the forty years of wandering in the desert after the Exodus.
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says in 8:21: "If we are captured, aU Judea will be captured and our sanctuary will be plundered; and he will make us pay for its desecration with our blood." Similarly, the success of Judith's mission is followed immediately by the pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the period of prolonged worship in the Temple
(16:18-20). Judith's restoration to the house of her husband parallels Israel's newly secured return to the house of God, that is, the removal of the threat that would have resulted in exile. This sequence may reflect the success of the Maccabean revolt. Thus it is Judith's actions upon which the sanctuary-"both the temple and the altar"-rests (8:24). If so, the house of Manasseh, from which Judith is in exile and to which she returns after her victory over Holofemes, may represent the Temple in Jerusalem, which properly consecrated is the locus for the most intimate expression of the relationship between God and Israel. The rooftop tent, the place of Judith's mourning and her plea to God, reflects the situation of exile from the "house" which Judith fears will be the outcome if God does not support and guarantee the success of her audacious plan. The constructed spaces-that is, the house, fortifications and tents-are not merely part of the setting in which the characters reside and the action takes place. Rather, they, their location, size and decor are directly related to plot development, to the characterization of the central figures and, most importantly perhaps, to the symbolic level of the book as a story of Israel in covenantal relationship with God. We turn now to the story of Susanna to see whether constructed spaces playa similarly important role.
2. Susanna This story, one of three additions to the biblical Book of Daniel, focusses on the plight of a beautiful and pious woman married to a wealthy and influential man in Babylonia (1-2). One hot day Susanna is entrapped in her garden by two elders who offer her an unsavoury ultimatum: either she lies with them or they
will report that she had a rendezvous with a young man in the garden (19-23). She refuses, and is accused, tried and sentenced to death for adultery (28-41). At the eleventh hour, the young Daniel, inspired by God, speaks out on Susanna's behalf, and rescues her by exposing the duplicity of the elders (4459). In the Septuagint and the Vulgate, the story of Susanna follows the last chapter of Daniel and is numbered chapter thirteen. In other texts, such as
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Theodotion, Old Latin, Coptic and Arabic, it is a preface to the first chapter of Daniel or an insert before Daniel 2, perhaps explaining why Daniel was held in high repute. The latest possible date is the Old Greek text of Daniel, early first century BeE. The Original language was likely Greek. Our analysis will be based on the version of Theodotion, in which domestic space plays a more prominent role than in the Old Greek, in which, for example, the bathing scene is omitted (cf. Moore 1977: 97). Unlike Judith, the story of Susanna features only two constructed spaces. These are the house belonging to Joachim, Susanna's husband, and the walled garden, or estate (mxpaoElOOC;, 4), that is adjacent to it. The plot moves from the house, in which the primary activity is judicial (6), to the garden, in which the activity is private and personal (6-27), and then returns to judicial activity without specifying the locale (28-59). It turns, however, on the walled space of the garden, and the differing stories about the events that took place and were alleged to have taken place within it. For Susanna, the garden is a regular respite; on this particular day it is a place in which she hopes to bathe in privacy during the heat of the day (15). For the elders, the garden is the place in which they plan to confront Susanna privately and satisfy their lust for her. At the moment that the elders reveal themselves to Susanna within the garden, this space is transformed for Susanna from life-giving oasis to tomb. As Susanna notes, she is hemmed in on every side; the very walls that had ensured her privacy now seal her fate (22). Both the elders' plot and the narrative plotline are resolved when the young Daniel in turn entraps the elders within their own story by exposing their faulty memory of the trees within the garden. As a vehicle for characterization, the garden, like Judith's tent, is a multilayered space. First, the garden underscores Susanna's piety, of which her modesty, indicated by her desire to bathe alone, is a commendable expression. Second, the garden is a marker of class and status. Susanna, like Judith, is apparently a wealthy woman. But in contrast to Judith, who as a widow had ownership and control ofhet dead husband's property, Susanna is defined solely by her role as wife. Both the house and the garden belong to her hu~band Joachim. Third, the garden is, in her view at least, Susanna's private domain. Although Joachim, unlike Manasseh, is very much alive, and although he is associated, by ownership, with both house and garden, the story implies
BETTER HOMES AND GARDENS
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Susanna's isolation and separation from Joachim through its use of domestic space, just as the Book of Judith implied Judith's separation from her husband through her rooftop location. Joachim is firmly attached to the house (4, 6), while Susanna is associated with the garden. Finally, the garden is a place of refreshment, beauty and pleasure. This aspect of the garden implies an association with other biblical gardens, principally the Garden of Eden and, even more directly, the garden of the Song of Songs. 8 In the Genesis narrative, the garden is the place of sexual awakening; in the Song of Songs, the garden is identified with the woman, to which the male lover alone has access (5: 1; 6:2). The machinations of the elders transform the garden from the place of Susanna's private refreshment to a place of threatened, forced, sexual encounter. Susanna is joined in the garden, or joined as garden, not by the beloved but by two dishonest elders, who would enter her as the lover of Canticles enters the garden. Their right of access to the garden is undisputed (36), but also unexpected, by Susanna if not by the reader. Susanna's naivete in this regard identifies the garden as a place of both sensuality and innocence, as was the primordial Garden of Eden. Now aware of her danger, she realizes that she is "hemmed in" on every side (22). That is, her physical location within the walled garden is now matched by her psychological and emotional entrapment at the hands, or, to be more precise, by the words of the elders. The role of the garden both in plot and in characterization suggests that the garden stands in for or symbolizes Susanna herself. As a pious Jewish woman, she is a locked or walled garden, safe, and hidden away from others except her rightful husband. The safety of the garden is violated by the elders, foreshadowing the potential threat their presence and their words pose to Susanna herself. Contrary to what one might expect, however, release comes not from the husband who through ownership of the garden, and marriage to the wife, has access thereto, but from the young prophet Daniel. Through his speech to the elders, Daniel figuratively enters the garden to discern the truth of what occurred there.
8
For a more detailed comparison of Susanna's garden with the garden in Canticles, see Fisch (1996: 37-40). See also Steussy (1993: 151-52), who views the story of Susanna as a midrash on Jeremiah.
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Which man then belongs in the garden? This question is raised by the contrast between Daniel's presence and Joachim's absence. Joachim is absent not only from the garden but also from the court proceedings, except, presumably, as spectator; he is silent in the face of the challenge to his wife's virtue and reputation; he is passive as the case is tried and the verdict pronounced. Daniel, on the other hand, defends her piety and chastity as her husband should have donej he is passionately convinced of her innocence, as her husband should have been. Daniel takes on the role of judge and arbiter that Joachim should have held as the most honoured man in the community. Daniel is quite literally the answer to Susanna's prayers (22,44). Without him, she is nothing; in fact, she is dead. But Daniel is not the young lad of the elders' fabricated story. Rather, he is the agent of the God ofIsrael to whom Susanna has cried out in her anguish.
It is God, therefore, who has full access to the garden and to whom Susanna, in her piety, is most closely related. The story of Susanna is not as explicit as the Book of Judith in identifying the female protagonist with the Jewish covenant community. Nevertheless, God's tendency to respond to the urgent pleas of the oppressed people Israel (Exod 2:23-25; LXX Esther 11: 10; Jdt 4: 1115) allows us to infer Susanna's role as symbolic ofIsrael from the portrayal of Daniel as God's answer to Susanna's prayers (44).9 In portraying Susanna in a garden accosted by elders and saved by God's prophet Daniel, the story calls to mind the sensual and erotic imagery associated in the Jewish and Christian allegorical interpretations of the Song of Songs with the covenantal relationship between God and Israel. lO Read in this way, the story underscores the need for piety and steadfastness in the face of the elders' threat of assault in the garden. Although the garden is walled, it is open to the sky, suggesting that it is through the heavens that the heavenly
9 In a similar vein, Levine (1995: 311-13) argues that Susanna is a projection of the threatened covenant community which faces temptation to its self-integrity; the story indicates that the flaws in leadership extend beyond the elders to Joachim himself, 10 Jewish allegorical interpretation of the Song of Songs is generally traced to the period between the destruction of the Temple (70 CE) and the Bar Kochba revolt (132-35 CE), as reflected in 2 Esdras 5:24, 26, but some scholars have argued that traces may be seen in earlier texts such as Wisdom 8:2. Allegorical interpretation receives its fullest and most coherent expression in the Targum to the Song of Songs generally dated to the seventh century CE, and is present also in the Talmud and Midrash Rabbah on the Song of Songs, For detailed discussion, see Pope (1977: 89-92).
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lover enters the sensual space that Susanna inhabits. The medium of this relationship is not made explicit. God's presence in the garden may be surmit;ed, however, from Susanna's declaration that she would rather fall into the elders' hands "than sin in the sight [or presence, Evwmov] of the Lord." Finally, it must be asked whether the situation of the garden as Susanna and as representing the situation of the covenant community in relationship with God reflects in any way the Diaspora setting of the book. It has been frequently noted that the story portrays a conflict within the Diaspora Jewish community rather than conflict between Jews and Gentiles. That is, the elders are undeniably Jewish, despite their association with Babylon. In this context, we may see the people of Israel in Diaspora as the garden, to which only God, as the one who loves Israel and is beloved by her, has legitimate access. The "garden" ofIsraei is attached to the "house" of Babylon. It is therefore separate from the "house" but nevertheless under its political control. When the ones who belong in the "house" take up position within the garden, it is in order to "rape" Israel, that is, exert their unlawful power and control over her to satisfy their own desires or forcibly require her allegiance to their way of life and, perhaps, to their gods. The members of the covenant community, like Susanna, must remain pure, a locked garden accessible only to their true love, namely, the God of Israel. 3. Conclusion In the stories of both Susanna and Judith, the textual representation of buildings and other constructed spaces such as gardens and tents is central to plot and characterization. These structures, however, also contribute to the ways in which these novels tell a larger story, that of the covenant community threatened both physically and spiritually by external forces against which only tenacious and single-minded devotion to God can prevail. Although piety may seem fragile and "feminine" like Susanna and Judith, and ephemeral and unprotected like the garden and tent with which they are associated, it calls forth the power and protection of the mightiest force of all, namely, the God of Israel. Although the architectural structures cannot be excavated from the soil ofIsrael or the surrounding Diaspora, they indirectly support the premise that underlies archaeological investigation. If gardens, tents, houses and fortresses
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carry plot, characterization and symbolic weight within the literature of the Second Temple period, it can only be because physical structures, from the grand fortresses of Herod to the meagre tents whose presence we can only surmise, were not simply a collection of spaces demarcated by walls but also conveyed a broad range of realities. They conveyed the need for defence, the requirement to mark off sacred from profane space, and they announced Israel's sense of her own uniqueness. They conveyed status, wealth, power, and also the desire of their architects and patrons for posterity. Just as physical structures were essential to the political, social, religious and economic life of the denizens ofIsrael and the Diaspora, and just as the representations of these structures are important for the plot, characterization and symbolic meaning of the literary works produced for and by these communities, so too is the study of these structures, in all of their manifestations, central to our own ability to reconstruct their history and their self-understanding as a nation in the shifting but eternal covenantal relationship with God.
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References Alonso-Schokel, Luis and Wilhelm H. Wuellner, eds. 1975 Narrative Structures in the Book of Judith: Protocol of the Eleventh Colloquy, 27 January [i.e., 17 March) 1974. Berkeley: Center for Hermeneutical Studies in Hellenistic and Modern Culture. Craven, Toni 1983 Artistry and Faith in the Book of Judith. Chico: Scholars Press. Dundes, Alan 1975 "Comment on 'Narrative Structures in the Book of Judith.'" In Alonso-Schokel and Wuellner, Narrative Structures in the Book of
Judith,27-29. Fisch, Harold
1996
"Susanna as Parable: A Response to Piero Boitani." In Ellen Spolsky (ed.) , TheJudgmentofSusanna: Authority and Witness, 35-4 L Atlanta: Scholars Press.
Levine, Amy-Jill
1992
1995
"Sacrifice and Salvation: Otherness and Domestication in the Book ofJudith." In James C. VanderKam (ed.), "No One Spoke III of Her": Essays on Judith, 17-30. Atlanta: Scholars Press. "'Hemmed in on Every Side': Jews and Women in the Book of Susanna." In Athalya Brenner (ed.), A Feminist Companion to Esther, Judith and Susanna, 303-23. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press.
Moore, Carey 1977
1985
Daniel, Esther and}eremiah: The Additions. Garden City: Doubleday.
Judith. Garden City: Doubleday.
Pope, Marvin
1977
Song of Songs. Garden City: Doubleday.
Richardson, Peter
1996
Herod: King of the Jews and Friend of the Romans. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press.
Steussy, Marti ).
1993
Gardens in Babylon: Narrative and Faith in the Greek Legends of Daniel. Atlanta: Scholars Press.
Wills, Lawrence
1995
The Jewish Novel in the Ancient World. Ithaca/London: Cornell University Press.
20
TYROS, THE "FLOATING PALACE" EHuoNETZER
In his Antiquities of the]ews Josephus described events concerning Joseph, son ofTobiah (a Jerusalemite nobleman who had married the daughter of the high priest Hananel), and Hyrcanus, Joseph's own son. Joseph was nominated by Ptolemy III to be a tax-collector in various areas east of the Jordan. According to the detailed descriptions ofJosephus (Ant. 12.156-222), he himself, and later Hyrcanus his son, were quite familiar with the aristocracy of Alexandria. According to the same source of information, Hyrcanus left Jerusalem as a result of a dispute within the family (apparently caused by different opinions concerning loyalty to the Ptolemaic versus the Seleucid factions) and settled east of the Jordan. He did so, around the year 180 BeE, at a site named Tyros, Wadi Sir of today, which is situated between Jericho and Philadelphia, closer to
the latter city-now Amman, the Jordanian capital: Hyrcanus, therefore, gave up his intention of returning to Jerusalem, and settled in the country across the Jordan, where he continually warred on the Arabs until he killed many of them and took many captive. And he built a strong fortress, which he constructed entirely of white marble up to the very roof, and had beasts of gigantic size carved on it, and he endOl)ed it with a wide and deep moat. He also cut through the projecting rock opposite the mountain, and made caves many stades in length; then he made chambers in it, some for banqueting and others for sleeping and living, and he let into it an abundance of running water, which was both a delight and an ornament to his country-estate. The entrances to the caves, however, he made narrower, so that only one person and no more could enter at one time; and this arrangement he made deliberately for the sake of safety, in order to avoid the danger of being besieged and taken by his brothers. In addition he also built enclosures remarkable for their size, and adorned them with vast parks. And when he completed the place in this manner, he named it Tyre. (Ant. 12.229-33)
THE FLOATING PALACE
341
The site, named 'Iraq al Amir, located at Wadi Sir, was first identified by lrby and Mangles as Tyros (or Tyre) in 1817 (1823: 146). Among the various scholars who later visited the site are de Vogue (1864: 34-38; plates 34-35), Conder (1889: 78) and Butler (1919: 80-89), all of whom provided important data concerning its archaeological remains. Butler also conducted minor excavations there. The most striking remains at 'Iraq al Amir were a series of caves and the ruins of a monumental building, known by the name of Kasr el'Abed, all of which correlate with the above-cited building in the quotation from Josephus. To most of these scholars, and the ones to follow them, there was no doubt as to the presence here of an ancient, artificial water tank, or lake, which initially encircled Kasr el-'Abed. The only doubts have been concerning the purpose of this water basin: was it primarily a military obstacle (as one might conclude from Josephus's account), a water reservoir or simply a lake of sorts? The next stage in the research of 'Iraq al Amir was carried out by two archaeological expeditions, an American one directed by Paul Lapp (1962) and a French one directed by Ernest Will together with the architect Fran<;ois Larche, in collaboration with F. Zayadine (1979 and 1985), on behalf of the Jordanian Archaeological Service (Will and Larche 1991). The latter team, which in contrast to Lapp concentrated mainly on Kasr el-'Abed, not only documented carefully all of its architectural remains and produced a reliable series of reconstructed drawings (Fig. 1), but also partially restored this inspiring building for the benefit of tourism. Kasr el-'Abed, according to the French team's comprehensive work, was a rectangular building ca. 38 x 19 metres in area and 12 metres high. The animal reliefs, already mentioned by Josephus, which surrounded this building on all four sides, comprised lions, panthers and eagles. Most of these reliefs are found on the elevations of the second storey except for two panthers at the ground level, one on each side, which were intended to serve as fountains (Fig. 1). The entrance to the building was via a portico to the north. From here one could either access the ground floor or ascend to the second floor by means of an elaborate staircase. A second portico, to the south, did not function as an entrance to the building but was probably designed to keep an architectural balance with the northern facade. It was flanked by an additional staircase which led to the second floor.
342
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The partiy preserved ground floor consisted of a central unit of four rooms, each about 7 x 3.5 metres, surrounded by corridors. A few more rooms, as well as the staircases, were adjacent to the two porticoes. The corridors, each about 3.5 metres wide, were well illuminated by seventeen large windows (seven on each of the longitudinal walls and three on the southern side), which also served as the only source of light for the four central rooms. The information concerning the second storey is not as clear. The only remaining evidence is of the upper floor's outer walls, which the French were able to restore. Unlike the lower floor, the upper one contained an abundance of windows-in fact one next to the other, with only small pillars in between. In their final report, however, the members of the French team did not submit any suggested plan for this upper storey. They did assume, though, that it contained a few dwelling rooms, as well as a hall or halls for entertaining guests. Nevertheless, prior to their work, Kasr eV Abed was interpreted in various ways-for example, as a fortress, a temple, a villa or a palace (Will and Larche 1991: 255,65). Kasr el-'Abed was built on top of a rectangular platform, 66 x 45 metres in size. The platform is higher than the surrounding levelled ground, which was covered in the past by water. This levelled area, covering ca. six hectares (1), was bounded by the slopes of the adjacent hills on the northwest and partially on the east. On the south it was bounded by a dam, ca. 150 metres long. 1. The Water During our first visit to the site, at the beginning of 1996, we were excited not only by the lavish ruins of Kasr eVAbed but also by the surrounding levelled area, in particular the dam which supported it. According to our preliminary calculation, 200,000 cubic metres of earth were used in the construction of this ancient dam! The visit inspired us to study more profoundly the relationship between the outstanding monument and the water tank that once surrounded it. In any event, the efforts invested in the implementation of the whole project-the monumental building and the water tank, hereafter called the "lake"-were substantial. One of our theories is that reflections of the remarkable building in the water played an important role. In order to explore such a theory, we initiated the construction of two models, one on a scale of 1: 100 (Fig. 2) and later a second one on a scale of 1:500 (Fig. 3), in which mirrors replaced the water.
THE FLOATING PALACE
343
The results of these tests were as tonishing. Not only is the reflected view of the animals from the different angles impressive, but the image of the building together with its reflection is striking in its beauty. As a result, we have no doubt that the planners of the monumental building were aware of the fact that the building would be reflected in the surrounding lake. They took advantage of the phenomenon of reflection in general, and of the reflection of the large animals in particular. In any other contemporary building, similar animals would arouse serious questions as to style, origin and proportion. By taking into account the reflection in the water as a basic factor these questions become far less pressing. Moreover, we know that dramatization was an important factor in Hellenistic architecture (Pollitt 1986: 230-49). We have no doubt that the sale function of Kasr el-'Abed was lavish entertainment. The only possible approach to it was apparently with small boats. (The existing causeway, from the east, was probably left for the transportation of building materials or, alternatively, as an aid to looting stones once the building was neglected.) A similar design existed at Lower Herodium, built by Herod the Great ca. 140 years later (Netzer 1981: 10-21; 1999a: 4547). Here, a round pavilion (13.5 metres in diameter) was located at the centre of a pool, 70 x 45 metres in size. The approach to this small, round building must also have been with small boats. 2. The Halls The new ideas have brought us to a further study ofKasr el-' Abed itself. There were no basic questions about the ground floor, whose few rooms functioned either for the recreation of the landlord and his most honoured guests, or for services. As to the second floor, it seemed most reasonable to us that the central major part of this floor contained only two units: an elongated entrance hall (a sort of narthex, 17 x 3.8 metres) and to the south a large triclinium
(oikos, 20.5 x 17 metres) following a basilical plan (Fig. 4). The proposed division between the narthex and the large hall finds its expression in the longitudinal elevations, as restored by the French team. The basic arguments for one major hall here are the abundance of windows on the surrounding walls, and the lack of evidence for the division of the walls, except for the one
344
TEXT AND ARTIFACf
just mentioned. In any event, to our mind the plan of the ground floor reflects the layout of the upper one. The large hall, which occupied most of the area of the second floor, together with the narthex, could hold several dozen guests and was, no doubt, the major element in this exotic building. The rest of the upper floor consisted, on each of the narrow sides, of a small court (a balcony of SOrts), a staircase and one additional room. Although the triclinium was apparently basilical in its layout, it likely had a straight, flat roof. Basilical halls, as a rule, had ceilings at different levels, thus allowing the introduction of clerestory windows. The absence of such windows here was compensated for by the abundance of windows on the triclinium's longitudinal walls. The roof itself probably served as an observation deck, for enjoyment of the landscape, the surrounding gardens and in particular the views of the artificial lake. In theory one might reconstruct small towers, either at the two northern corners or at all four corners. These towers would include small, lavish rooms which could provide shaded areas for the convenience of those guests who enjoyed the roof. To a certain extent these towers also improve the architectural quality and harmony of the narrow entrance facade (see Fig. 5). Both the gabled cornices and the eagles find a better expression in this proposed scheme. The proposed triclinium is comparable to two elaborate dining halls built ca. 150 years later at the nearby garden city of Jericho. These two halls were revealed within Herod the Great's winter palace complex, which comprised three palaces, built in succession. The first triclinium was exposed by Pritchard in 1951 (1958: 6-7), in the first Herodian palace built on this site (Hall 33, 15 x 10 metres). The second, huge hall was exposed by the present author in 1974 (Netzer 1975: 94-95; 1999b: 45·47), in the frame of Herod's third palace (Hall
870,29 x 19 metres). 3. The Lake The initial shape of the lake itself was probably meant to be rectangular. The final shape is somewhat different, mainly toward the east, apparently as a result of the existing topography. The only access to Kasr el-'Abed, as mentioned above, was with small boats apparently stationed by a pier located at the northern side of the lake. Boats could also have been used to circle the building in order for their passengers to enjoy the reflections of Kasr el-'Abed in the
THE FLOATING PALACE
345
lake. In such a case, only a slow, easy movement causing minimal waves would have provided the right conditions for these views. In any event, the guests at Tyros could have enjoyed the outstanding reflections of Kasr el-'Abed in two different ways: while using the small boats, and while walking on the promenade, around the lake. In this respect, the models have proved to us that the views from the lake's banks were superb. The promenade, about one kilometre long, also enabled visitors who were not invited to join events taking place in Kasr el-'Abed (or, alternatively, during periods in which the landlord was absent) to enjoy the unique reflected views. At one point at least, on the fringe of the lake to the north, there are remains of a structure that could have served as an observation deck. The reflection was not seen from the building itself or even from its roof. Nevertheless, one could enjoy from here attractive reflections of the surrounding mountains, at least in some directions.
4. The Estate In order to understand the background of Hyrcanus's outstanding project, one should also take account of the estate within which this project was installed. It seems that the Tobiad's estate covered an area of at least 60 hectares (150 acres). As far as we know today it included: the well-known series of caves (Conder 1889: 67-78); the remains of an ancient elaborate building, or buildings (now covered by the recent village, 'Iraq al Amir) , partially excavated by Lapp (196Z); the remains of the monumental building, Kasr el-'Abed; the remains of the artificial take; and the remains of a monumental gate, close to the lake (Denzer, Villeneuve and Larche 1980). This large area also includes a few additional ancient structures, evidence of ancient conduits, and an abundance of levelled grounds. Some of these levelled grounds might indicate the presence of ancient buildings that have since disappeared. The large estate, no doubt, included many orchards and gardens of various sorts. Some of these might have been used as pleasure gardens, as hinted by Josephus. Inge Nielsen, a Danish scholar who has studied the origin of the Hellenistic palaces (1994), sees in the Persian paradoisos a tentative source of inspiration for such a design. The estate was entered from the west (the direction of the Jordan Valley) through a monumental gate, situated ca. 120 metres east of the pavilion. The
346
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
gate, 10 metres high, which had animals in relief, was excavated by the French team. It faces toward the north rather than in the direction of the pavilion, an indication of the homogeneity of the estate as a whole. Those who entered the gate, however, were soon exposed to the fascinating views of the lake with the monumental building in its midst. A second monumental gate might have existed at the estate's other end, the upper part of Wadi Sir (the direction of Amman), bur if so it left no evidence. The estate's major building is apparently covered by the small village of 'Iraq al Amir. Only a limited section of it was excavated by Lapp during the early 1960s. Among the various strata revealed here, the most striking one (Stratum III) is dated to the beginning of the second century BCE (Lapp 1962).
It points to a well-planned building, including courtyards, colonnades and several rooms decorated with frescoes. All around the area of 'Iraq al Amir one can observe an abundance of column drums and other architectural elements. Based on these remains, as well as the surveys conducted by de Vogue and Butler, it seems that most of the hill covered by the present village was occupied by one substantial building, ca. 100 x 75 metres in size, an elaborate villa or a palace. To our way of thinking, it could have served as the estate's central building prior to the days of Hyrcanus. Hypothetically, another large building might have existed not far from Kasr el-'Abed, close to the lake's northeastern corner. Although the "square building" which was excavated by Lapp not far from here has no significance, the architectural elements revealed there, in particular the artificially levelled area next to it (ca. 90 x 70 metres) so distinctive in the surveys of de Saulcy and Butler, have led us to suggest the existence here of a palatial building, which could have been totally looted (Fig. 6, foreground). It might have been built by Hyrcanus, together with the lake with the pavilion in its midst. This hypothetical building, perhaps a sort of villa, would have provided the needed dormitory, guest and service rooms whereas Kasr el-'Abed was used for special, exotic entertainment. Only future excavations can prove the above-mentioned hypothesis. If it is wrong, however, the large building below the village of 'Iraq al Amir could have fulfilled the same functions, although a building next to the lake, with wonderful vistas, would have been much more inspiring.
THE FLOAT1NG PALACE
347
5. The Caves We shall refer here only briefly to the site's famous caves. Among the various caves here are the two well-known ones, thanks to the name i1)J.1D (Tobiah, in Aramaic) incised in the rock next to their entrances. These caves seem to have been used as reception rooms for guests. Both of them have slightly arched ceilings and had a lower level, a sort of cellar, separated from the upper hall by a wooden ceiling. The entrances to these two caves, however, are not as narrow as one might assume, following Josephus's description. Of special interest is the cave that was used as a stable for close to 120 horses (de Saulcy 1867; Conder' 1889: 69-71). The famous Zenon letters (Edgar 1925: 7-10), as well as other historical sources, have pointed to the use of cavalry by the Tobiads.
6. Summary Following the data discussed above, there should be no doubt as to Kasr el'Abed and the lake being one homogeneous, imaginative as well as ambitious project. It was most probably built as an integral part of the estate which already existed here before the arrival of Hyrcanus at Wadi Sir. Kasr el-'Abed, a sort of pavilion situated at the centre of the lake, would have been used solely during outstanding events. Even though Hyrcanus was never nominated as a ruler, his activity here reflects his hidden ambitions to gain such a position. The pavilion-lake project clearly reflects the powerful personality of its builder, as well as his close relationship with Alexandria. This argument adds further credibility to Hyrcanus's story as reported by Josephus. While observing the reflection of Kasr el-'Abed in the water, as represented in the model, one might get the impression of a boat floating on a small lake. A certain connection between Kasr el-'Abed and the thalamegos (a floating palace of Ptolemy IV, well known from historical sources) was already suggested by various scholars such as Caspari (1916), Lauter (1986: 284) and Nielsen (1994: 138-44). It was based on architectural detail, as well as the possible ties between this building and Alexandrian architecture in general. Hyrcanus, who had visited Alexandria and was warmly welcomed there, might have even hired his architect or architects in this important Hellenistic cultural centre. In any event, with the Kasr el-'Abed's double image, the resemblance to the floating palace (thalamegos) is striking. This example, and other ones,
348
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
like buildings constructed on waterfronts, were well known to Hyrcanus's architects, who might have tried to imitate them in a sophisticated manner. Even if this project was in fact never entirely completed, as indicated by some of the remains, one might appreciate it as standing on one level with the building operations of the Hasmoneans and even of Herod the Great (see Netzer 1999b). Hyrcanus's suicide is generally explained as the result of current events; however, it seems to us that his self-inflicted death might well have resulted from his inability to bear the situation of an alien ruler (in this case Antiochus IV) enjoying his enchanted project. Wadi Sir still hides many secrets. A major question is the fate of the site during the Hasmonean and the Herodian periods. The excavated cultural material does not give full answers to this question. Restoring this lake now would not be complicated, and, if nothing else, the benefit to tourism would be tremendous. l
I would like to thank Michael Sasson for the building of the models, Kris Laureys for her drawings and Judit Gertner for her general assistance in the study. This study would not been implemented without the superb work done by the French team, in particular FranlYois Larche's drawings and restorations.
THE FLOATING PALACE
Fig. 1 Restoration of Kasr el-'Abed (Will and Larche)
Fig. 2 View of Kasr el-'Abed's model, facing southeast (photographer Michael Sasson)
349
350
TEXT AND ARTIFAl!
Fig.3 View of the lake's model, facing north
(photographer Michael Sasson)
'"
,~
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Fig. 4 Restored plan of second storey (as suggested by author)
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THE FLOATING PALACE
Fig.5 Restored northern fa~ade ofKasr el-'Abed (as suggested by author)
Fig.6 View of the lake's model, facing south {photographer Michael Sasson}
351
352
TEXT AND ARTIFACf
References Butler, Howard Crosby
1919
Princeton University Archaeological Expeditions to Syria, 1904-5 and 1909. Leiden: Brill.
Caspari, F.
1916
"Das NillschiffPtolmaios IV." Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archaologischen
Instituts 31: 1-74. Conder, Claude Rcignier
1889
The Survey of Easeem Palestine, Vol. 1: The Adwan Country. London: Committee of the Palestine Exploration Fund. Denzer, J. M., F. Villeneuve and Fran~ois Larche 1980 "The Monumental Gateway and Princely Estate of 'Iraq el-Amir." Annuals of the American Schools of Oriental Research 47: 133-48. De Saulcy, F.
1867
"Aaraq el-Emyr." Memoires de I'Academie des inscriptions et belles-lettres
26: 33-107. De Vogue, Melchior
1864
Le temple de Jerusalem. Paris: Noblet et Baudry.
Edgar, C. C.
1925 Zenon Papyri. Cairo: Institut fran"ais d'archeologie orientale. Irby, Charles Leonard and James Mangles 1823
Travels in Egypt and Nubia, Syria and Asia Minor, During the Years 1817 and 1818. London: White.
Lapp, Paul W.
1962
"Soundings at 'Araq e1-Emir." Bulletin of the American Schools of
Oriental Research 165: 16-34. Lauter, Hans
1986
Die Architektur Buchgesellschaft.
Hellenismus.
Darmstadt:
Wissenschaftliche
Netzer. Ehud
1975 1981 1999a 1999b
"The Hasmonean and Herodian Winter Palaces at Jericho." Israel
Explorationloumal25: 89-100. "Greater Herodium." Monographs of the Institute of Archaeology (Hebrew University ofJerusalem) 13: 10-21. Herodium: An Archaeological Guide. Jerusalem: Institute of Archaeology. Die Paliiste der Hasmoniier und Herodes der Groj3en. Mainz am Rhein: Von Zabern.
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353
Nielsen, lnge
1994
Hellenistic Palaces: Tradition and Renewal. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press.
Pollitt, J. J.
1986
Art in the Hellenistic Age. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Pritchard, James B. 1958 "The Excavation at Herodian Jericho, 1951." Annuals of the
American Schools of Oriental Research 32-33: 6· 7. Will, Ernest and Fran~ois Larche, eds.
1991
'Iraq al-Amir: I.e chateau du tobiade Hyrcan. Paris: Librairie Orientaliste Paul Geuthner.
21
OJ nOTE IOiMIOI: EPIGRAPHIC EVIDENCE FOR JEWISH DEFECTORS STEPHEN O. WILSON
Under the broad rubric of this volume epigraphic evidence stands somewhere between text and artifact. Like text it is written, but it is not part of a sustained literary work. Like other archaeological evidence it is local and quotidian but, unlike mute stones, it speaks-if in a cryptic and laconic language of its own. It is artifactual evidence, but artifactual evidence of a particular kind. In the past, the merits of literary and historical texts have been weighed against the epigraphic. The former, it has been suggested, provide the broad picture into which the minutiae of the latter can be woven; the latter provide the local detail essential for filling out and correcting the former. Sometimes these have been presented as competitive claims, but their relationship is more productively seen as complementary. Epigraphic evidence has much to offer: it deals with the nitty-gritty of life and reflects the concerns of all levels of society; it expresses views unfiltered by normative tradition; and it can usually be assigned a place and, with less certainty, a date. It is not necessarily unbiased-epitaphs and panegyrics on behalf of patrons and leaders have their own, often transparent, agendas-and it is usually written with an audience in mind, but it does offer a slice of life that we otherwise do not see. l Literary and historical texts, for all their biases, paint the broad picture without which much of the surviving epigraphic evidence, where it made sense at all, would leave us with a seriously limited view of ancient life.
For a general discussion of the nature of epigraphic evidence see Trebilco (1991: 2-3) and Millar (1983). The latter notes that some long inscriptions are minor literary works in themselves, suggesting that the boundaries between epigraphic and literary sources should not be too clearly drawn.
JEWISH DEFECTORS
355
It has been noted-to move closer to our topic-that epigraphic and archaeological evidence alone would leave us with almost no sense of the practices and beliefs that were central in the lives of Jews in antiquity (Goodman
1994: 219). Epigraphic remains deal with limited areas of Jewish life and experience. Most common, for example, are epitaphs, followed by formal dedications and contracts. Only a few survive, and many of these are fragmentary and hard to read. They are usually laconic and sometimes use linguistic conventions peculiar to their genre. Relative to the overall population ofJews their numbers are infinitesimally small, a recent estimate suggesting that Jewish epitaphs represent well below 0.001 percent of the total Jewish population in the Roman period (van der Horst 1991: 79-80). Their geographic distribution, too, is uneven, since the bulk of our evidence comes from Africa (including Egypt) and Rome. All this, of course, is in addition to the vexed question of deciding which inscriptions are Jewish and which are not. 2 My aim is to consider a very small portion of this evidence clustered around the theme of defection. The first task is to see what is there and the second to see what kinds of problems it presents. In this way we can illustrate and test some of the more general comments made above. Before this, however, it is important that we set out-if only as laconically as the typical epigraph-some of the literary evidence for Jewish defectors.
1. Literary Evidence During the Maccabean uprising there were both forced (1 Mace 1:43,50-53;
2: 15) and willing defections Oosephus, Ant. 12.240,364,384-85). A century or so later Antiochus of Antioch publicly renounced Judaism Oosephus, War 7.50-51), and Tiberius Alexander, Philo's nephew, is often seen as a defector (cf. Josephus, Ant. 20.lO0). Philo speaks ofJews who rebel against, deride and denounce their heritage (Vin. 182; Conf. 2.2; Post. Cain 35-40; Mut. Nom. 61), and warns against those who would entice Jews to participate in pagan worship (Spec. Leg. l.314-18). Third Maccabees speaks of several hundred defectors, ostensibly in the third century BCE, but referring perhaps to events in the first
2 On defining Jewish inscriptions see most recently Kraemer (1991), van der Horst (1991: 16-11l), Kant (1987: 682-89), and van Henten and de Vaate (1996), who base their study on a critique of some of the material designated Jewish by Trebilco (1991).
356
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
century too (2:31-33; 3:23; 7:10-15), and of one Dositheus who abandoned Judaism to serve in the imperial court and cult (1:3). Suetonius speaks of}ews who denied their Jewish origin in the reign of Domitian (Dom. 12.2), and rabbinic literature preserves a number of traditions about the second-century apostate, Elisha ben Avuyah (y. ]jag. 2.1.77b; b. ]jag. 14b-15b). Much could be said about these examples individually and collectively, but for now the mere listing of them suffices to show that literary sources provide ample evidence that defection from Judaism was not unknown in the Second Temple period and beyond. They thus provide a backdrop to our consideration of epigraphic sources. 2. Epigraphic Evidence 3 1. We start with perhaps the best-known inscription relating to defectors and
the one that provided our title:
oi 1tOte . IO\Joa\O\ f.1\J[piaoal a' the former Ioudaioi [gavel 10,000 (CI] 2.742) Located in Smyrna and dating from the Hadrianic period, it is part of a list of donors to the city. The . Iouoaiot between them gave 10,000 drachmae, not a large donation given that some individuals gave 70,000. Since ten others, individually named, between them gave 10,000, this may suggest that the Jews were a group rather larger than ten (Smallwood 1976: 507). It presents, in context, no transcription problems. The ambiguity lies in the peculiar use of "3
The only ~ttempr known to me to collect epigraphic m~terial tebting to defectors is
Figueras (1990), in a section entitled "Jewish Syncretism and Defection to Paganism and Christianity." Borgen (1995: 36-37) has a brief analysis of three inscriptions. Barclay (1996) discusses much of the evidence at various points in his astute survey of Diaspora Judaism. Otherwise, individual inscriptions are discussed in passing by editors of collections or by those interested in broader aspects of Jewish life. Abbreviations cited: CIG, Corpus inscriptionum graecarnm, eds. A. Boekh et al. Berlin: Reimer, 1828-77; CU, Corpus inscriptionum iudaicarum, ed. J. B. Frey. Rome: Poutiftcio istituto di archeologia cristiana. Vol. 1 (1936), Vol. 2 (1952). Vol. 1 (= CU e) revised with Prolegomenon by B. Lifshitz. New York: Ktav, 1975; CIL, Corpus inscriptionum latinarum, ed. the Berlin Royal Academy. Berlin: Reimer, 1863-1974; IGRR, Inscriptiones gmecae ad res romanes pertinentes, eds. R. Cagnat et al. Paris: Leroux, 1901- 27; MAMA, Monumenta asiae mirwris antiqua, eds. J. Keil et al. Manchester/London: Manchester University Press/Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies, 1928-62.
JEWISH DEFECfORS
357
1t01:e and the fluid range of ' IOl)o~to~. The earliest editors (CrG 3148; IORR
4.1431; CI] 2.742) took the inscription to be a reference to "former Jews" who had renounced their Judaism and made their donation in order to gain civic rights and social acceptance. Kraabel (1982: 455) proposes that it should be translated "'people formerly of] udea', perhaps immigrants from Palestine, now doing their civic duty as residents of Smyrna." Presumably these could have been non-Jews (Kraabel does not specify), which would eliminate a reference not only to defectors butto Jews as well. Kraemer (1989: 43), in turn, suggests that this interpretation could be extended to several other inscriptions from Asia Minor. Kraabel's translation, it must be said, is inherently improbable and is offered with virtually no supporting evidence. Yet it has frequently been adopted, 4 in part, I suspect, from a vague sense that defection from] udaism was extremely rare and should be assumed only when the evidence unavoidably points that way. The term ' Iouo~to<; (Latin Iudaeus) has indeed a range of possible meanings. It can be used as a name, a rare and early meaning. That it could be used to refer to pagan sympathizers rather than Jews or proselytes seems unlikely.5 The geographic meaning "Judean" is found in earlier sources and perhaps in Josephus's phrase "by origin a Judean" (' Iouo~ioC; ["Coj Y€V6<;;).6 Yet by the Roman period the term refers overwhelmingly, perhaps exclusively, to Jews wherever they hailed from. 7 Common usage thus does not favour the translation "Judeans." Further, it has been noted, it would be highly unlikely-
4 T rebilco (1991: 175), for example, simply says that Kraabel has shown that the phrase means "former Judeans"! Solin (1983: 646) says that ifKraabel is right it is an extremely rare use of 'IouoCtio~. Van der Horst (1991: 69 n.24) thinks it unprovable but improbable. 5 So vander Horst (1991: 69-71) and Williams (1997a: 250-53), arguing against Kraemer's view that it is often used as a name and that it could refer to pagan sympathizers too. Dio Cassius (His!. 37.17.1) does say that non-Jews who lived according to Jewish laws were called Jews, but he may refer to proselytes rather than sympathizers. There is no clear inscriptional evidence for sympathizers called' IouOCtiOl, and at any rate it would be hard to distinguish them from Jews and proselytes. 6 Cohen notes, however (1994: 36-37), that Josephus's phrase is an "archaic usage." 7 See the lucid discussion in van der Horst (1991: 69-70), and especially Williams (1997a: 252-53), who has the most recent and acute discussion of the inscriptional use of 'Io1)oaio~/Iudaeus in general and the Smyrna inscription in particular .. Iouoaio,= can convey the sense of an external perspective, Jews talking to or being talked about by nonJews, as distinct from the term "Israel," which expresses an inner-Jewish perspective ([omson 1986), although this distinction does not apply uniformly to the evidence.
358
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
if Iudaeus regularly meant "Judean"-that so many of them would have a Latin surname (cognomen) (Solin 1983: 648; van def Horst 1991: 70). If the reference is thought to be to non-Jewish Judeans , it would be surprising to find them advertising their links with a people who had recently been involved in
a series of bloody revolts under T raj an and (depending on the inscription's date) perhaps under Hadrian too. 8 In addition, the normal way of expressing place of origin in inscriptions is by city rather than by country of origin, using the preposition areD plus the city name or simply the city name in the genitive. If an ethnikon is used it is usually in the nominative (Kant 1987: 687 n.97, 707; Williams 1997a: 252).9 The evidence thus points strongly to the translation "the former Jews." Are there any arguments that favour Kraabel's view? Solin, who considers it at best as a rare exception to the general use of . Iouoexlo<;, suggests two parallels that, in the end, do not strengthen the case. IO Some think it would be odd to record one's apostasy in a barely noticeable phrase buried in a long list of donors (Kraabel 1982: 455), while others have remarked-to the contrary-that it would be odd for "the former Jews" to advertise their apostasy in such a public way. Yet there are literary parallels to public defection (Antioch us in Josephus, War 7.47), and it may be that the phrase was chosen by others as a convenient way to describe this group of former Jews. 11 All in all,
8
Williams (1997a: 251-52) notes, too, that if we could date the inscription more precisely (which we cannot) to the period after 135 BeE whe~ Judea was renamed Syria-Palestine, that would help settle the matter. It might be possible to argue that these Jews were demonstrating theif benevolence and reliability at precisely the time when other Jews (unJer Trajan and Hadrian) had been involved in open revolt (Tn:bilco 1991: 175). If they were Jews from Judea they might have emigrated precisely to get away from the troubles in Judea. 9 Cohen (1990: 221 n.5) makes the same point more briefly when he notes that non-Jews from Judea would be called simply "Judeans" not "[omler Judeans." Barclay (1996: 333) also notes that there is no supporting evidence for the view that those from Judea would be described as "the former Judeans." 10 So Williams (1997a: 252). She notes that the reading Iuda(eus) in CIL 14.4624 has now been corrected to Iuda, and that the use of the abbreviation lI.s.f. in CU 2.643 does not indicate a pagan origin (and thus a geographic sense for Iudaeus in this inscription), since Jews did usell.s.f. and, at any rate, it could meanllivus sibifecit (as in Noy 1993: 1.7) rather than lIotum salllit feliciter. 11 Levinskaya (1996: 210n.11) thinks it was simply the name by which they were known in the city and that it may primarily have had an economic reference to Jews who once paid the fiscus judaicus but did so no longer, contributing instead to theif city of residence.
JEWISH DEFECTORS
359
there seems nothing to be said for Kraabel's view, and we should take this inscription as clear evidence for Jewish defection. 2. We turn back several hundred years to what may be the earliest epigraphic reference to a Jewish defector: Moschos, son of Moschion, a Jew [ 'Iouoaioc;], as a result of a dream [has set up this stele] at the command of the gods Amphiaraos and Hygeia, in accordance with the orders of Amphiaraos and Hygeia to write these things on a stele and set [it] up by the altar. (CU 12.71lb, trans. Williams 1997a: 258) From the sanctuary of the healing god Amphiaraos in Oropus, between Attica and Boetia, and dated to the period 300-250 BeE, it records the manumission of the Jew Moschos, slave of Phrynidas. Moschos, the inscription continues, sought healing or help at the sanctuary. The gods Amphiaraos and Hygeia appeared to him in a dream and instructed him to erect the stele near the altar of the sanctuary. The implication is that Moschos followed the normal ritual process at Amphiorus, which involved incubation, sacrifice of a ram and payment of a fee (Lewis 1957: 264-65). Moschos declares that he is the son of Moschion, a Jew, yet he engages in what were, from a Jewish perspective, decidedly impious practices (Williams 1997a: 255). Is he thus declaring a change of allegiance, or implying that his engagement in pagan religious rites was merely a temporary concession to deal with some sort of crisis? It seems to me to be a clear example of extreme syncretism or, better, of defectionthough, as we shall see, the line between syncretism and defection is not always easy to draw. 3. A series of inscriptions at a temple of the god Pan raises similar issues: Bless God [8EOC;)! Theodotos [son] of Dorion, a Jew [' Iouoaioc;], rescued from the sea. (Cl] 2.1537 = Horbury and Noy 1992: 121) Ptolemaios [sonl of Dionysios, a Jew [' Iouoaioc;], blesses the god ['to V 6EOV). (CU 1.1538 = Horbury and Noy 1992: 122) Two inscriptions by one Lazarus, who came "three times" ["pi 'tov) or perhaps, "with two others." (Horbury and Noy 1992: 123, 124)
360
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
These are part of ninety inscriptions found around a Paneion at El-Kanais, Egypt, most of which are dedicated to "Pan of the Successful Journey," and are dated 150-80 BeE. The first two celebrate either rescue from a shipwreck or, less dramatically, a safe voyage. Frey (CU 2.1537-38) thought them the product of Jews who were at the least "unorthodox," since they thought that they could give thanks either to Yahweh in a temple of Pan or to Pan because he was some sort of universal deity (1:0 1tav
= "the all")Y Others have noted some
unusual
features: the men acknowledge their Jewish parentage; they give thanks ambiguously to a "god," who could be either Pan or Yahweh, while most of the other inscriptions on the site specifically mention Pan; and the inscriptions are found on a rock face west of the temple, slightly away from the main sanctuary. Their distinctive language and location are thus, for some, evidence that Theodotos and Ptolemaios deliberately tried to avoid any semblance of apostatizing (Bernand 1972: 105-109; Horbury and Noy 1992: 207 -208). The Significance of their location has perhaps been overplayed (Kant 1987: 685 n.85), especially when we note that one of the Lazarus inscriptions, identified as Jewish by the name alone, is inside the main sanctuary (the restoration of the name in this inscription is uncertain; Horbury and Noy 1992: 212). That Theodotos and Ptolemaios assert their Jewish identity may represent only their own assessment. Defectors, typically, do not declare themselves as such; indeed they often protest the opposite. The term 6eo,= is ambiguous, but given the location in and around a sanctuary of Pan it is not hard to imagine how most people would have understood it. Was Pan then more a concept than a deity, whose invocation was as innocuous as when we say (as perhaps ancient Jews did) "good luck" without necessarily conjuring up the deity of fortune?13 Perhaps, but no evidence has been offered to support this-and the use of worn phrases like "good luck," or "Hades," or even invocations of ancestral gods (the dis manibus formula), are not the same as deliberately carving an inscription at a sanctuary dedicated to a figure widely regarded as a pagan deity. Here the location speaks strongly against innocent ambiguity.14 If these Jews honoured a pagan deity, as
12 Frey, CI} 2.445; similarly Figueras (1990: 203). 13 Goodenough (1956) thought the "good luck" (ayae~ rUXTJ) inscriptions from the Bosporus were Jewish; others think they point to judaizing pagans (Kant 1987: 684 n.8l). 14 On the use of terms like "Hades," shorn of their mythological force, see van der Horst (1991: 152); Lifshitz (1962: 66-70); and Kant (1987: 683). The recent consensus seems to be that Jews did use the dis manibu.s formula (Kraemer 1991: 155-58; Kant 1987: 683),
361
JEWISH DEFECTORS
seems most probable, they perhaps saw no conflict with their understanding of Judaism. Or it may indicate that they had abandoned their Jewish roots in favour of a more relaxed accommodation to pagan polytheism. Whatever they thought about their behaviour, it placed them beyond what most Jews would have defined as acceptable limits. 4. The following comes from Asia Minor ca. 150 BCE: Nicetas, a Jerusalemite from lasos [' Iaoovot;] donated ten drachmae. 2.749)
(eu
There is some ambiguity in the transcription-' Iucrovo<; may be the name Jason rather than the town Iasos in Asia Minor-but it does not affect our argument. The name appears on a list of donors to a Dionysus festival. Because he came from Jerusalem NicetaslJason is identified as a Jew-a probable but not certain conclusion. If he was, his public association with the Dionysus festival was something most Jews would have avoided (Borgen 1995: 36), especially if we assume "that after paying his contribution he enjoyed the feast which he helped finance" (Barclay 1996: 322). Perhaps he saw it as part of his civic duty, causing no threat to his Jewish identity, or perhaps his sense of identity with Judaism had been significantly weakened. 5. The following comes from Gorgippia, Russia, ca. 41
CE:
To the most high God, Almighty, blessed [8EWl t)\j.rio"Cu:n nano Kpa"Cwp, EUAoYT)"Cl in the reign of the king Mithridates .... Pathos, the son of Strabo, dedicated to the prayer house [npooEu)(iil in accordance with the vow his house-bred slave-woman, whose name is Chrysa, on condition that she should be unharmed and unmolested by any of his heirs under Zeus, Ge, Helios. (eu 1.690; also 12 Prolegomenon 690; trans. Levinskaya 1996: 23940, based on her own transcription) This is a classic example of the problems in defining Jewish inscriptions. The majority has accepted it as Jewish, arguing that the terms 1tav-coKpUtWP,
but Rutgers (1995: 268-73) argues that most such inscriptions are not Jewish and that, if found in a Jewish context, they come from Jewish converts-a view not unlike Frey's (Cl} 2.445). Off-the-shelf tombstones may have come with the formula already inscribed, and there is evidence for secondary use merely to block off a new tomb.
362
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Eu,l..oyrrr6<; and npOaEux'I) are clearly Jewish. In this instance, therefore, tHjda'w<; refers to Yahweh too. 15 Horsley has claimed that all of these terms
could be pagan, and the oddity of introducing three pagan deities into a Jewish inscription would thus be removed. 16 But then it has been noted that the invocation of pagan deities was normal in judicial proceedings, and that Jews in Elephantine used pagan oath formulas-indeed, they may have been a legal requirement (Schlirer 1973-87: 3.1.37). Jews would, on this view, have treated a reference to pagan gods as a mere formality. Some of the issues remain unresolved. It is interesting to note that in none of the other manumission inscriptions from the Bosporus produced by Levinskaya (1996: 231-42) does the invocation of pagan gods appear. This might lead us to doubt whether its use was such a routine matter. Also, the parallels from Elephantine are from a much earlier period and a different location, and may not be relevant (van Henten and de Vaate 1996: 25). Nor is the presence of the term rrpOOEUX'I) a sure sign of a Jewish context. It was widely used by Jews to describe their meeting place, but may have been used by pagans too. 17 8EO<; UWCo't'o<; was used by both pagans and Jews, even occasionally by Christians (Mitchell 1993: 2.50 n.293), and the other divine descriptors do not certainly belong solely to Judaism. If it is of Jewish provenance, what do we make of the pagan formula? Is it a clear case of deliberate syncretism (Figueras 1990: 204), or nothing more than the casual use of a pagan formula? Other evidence from the Bosporus might suggest the former, yet, on the "Jewish" reading of the inscription, the enthusiastic invocation of Yahweh could be said to counteract the closing formula and
to
suggest that we should probably speak of accommodation and not of apostasy-but the issue remains finely balanced.
15 Frey (CU 1.690) took it to be Jewish and was followed by his reviser, Lifshitz (1975), then also by Kant (1987: 684 n.8!) and Trebilco (1991: 136). 16 Horsley (1981: 1.27). He notes that ruling out the pagan use of these terms in principle means that we might be overlooking precisely the evidence that inscriptions like this one could provide-though substituting one circular argument for another does not get us far. Van Henten and de Vaate (1996: 25) also argue that the terms are variously used by Jews, Christians and pagans, and that a firm ascription is impossible. 17 Trebilco (1991: 242 nA2) thinks that pagans occasionally used it; he is followed by van IIentcn and de Vaate (l996: 25). Levinskaya (1996: 213-25) argues that they did not, except in the instance we arc diSCUSSing, which she attributes to Gentile sympathizers influenced by Jews.
JEWISH DEFECfORS
363
6. An inscription from Cyrene, dated to 60-61 eE, lists the city magistrates (VOlloqH)ACXK€~), and includes among them one Eleazer, son of Jason. 18 The name Eleazer was common among CyreneanJews and it is usually assumed that he was a Jew too. The inscription is in the form of a dedication by the city magistrates to a deity (the name is lost), and it opens with the names of the past and present priests of Apollo. Other dedications from Cyrene by the city magistrates honour Apollo, Homonoia and Aphrodite, and we may assume that one of these probably appeared here. The duties of the magistrates "were connected with registration and recording, with finance and with supervision over the proper administration of the law." They were thus the senior civic authorities, in all likelihood made up largely of the local aristocracy (Applebaum 1979: 189-90, quotation 189).
It has long been recognized that significant adjustments would have had to be
made when Jews joined the ranks of civic officialdom, since many of their
duties routinely involved cultic activities associated with the city gods. Maybe there were instances where pagans made adjustments or allowances, but in this case it seems that Eleazer went along with the standard rites of a pagan administration. Did this involve some sort of apostasy? Not according to Applebaum, who thinks that Eleazer's decision not to adopt a Greek name-as did many Cyrenean Jews, including those active in their communities-signals his faithfulness to Judaism (Applebaum 1979: 186). Changing a name (or not) is, however, hardly a significant indicator of commitment to Judaism, as Applebaum himselfindicates. Eleazer must have made significant compromises during his time as a magistrate, but it remains true that he, like other Jews in the same position, might have considered this an acceptable compromise that could be contained within their continuing commitment to Judaism. Like Philo, they could have been conscious of the dangers but convinced that they could themselves survive, thus not only benefiting the city with their skills but also advancing the reputation of the Jewish community as a whole. It is certainly not of the same order as some of the examples above.
18 Originally published in Quademi del archeologia della tibia 4 (1961): 16 n.2. It is discussed most fully by Applebaum (1979: 186,90), and noted by Borgen (1995: 37) as a possihle example of defection, with the caveat that we cannot assume that Jews like Eleazer saw themselves as abandoning their tradition.
364
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
7. In an inscription from Acmonia in Asia Minor, dated ca. 80-90 eE, we read the following: This building was erected by Julia Severa; P[ubliusl Tyrronius Klados, the head for life of the synagogue [0 OUt PtOl) apxwuvciywyo~], and Lucius, son of Lucius, head of the synagogue [apXlauvaywyo~l, and Publius Zotikos, archon, restored it with their own fund and with money which had been deposited .... [Alnd the synagogue honoured them with a gilded shield .... (MAMA 6.264 = CU 2.766)
This inscription has been understood to contain a reference to a Jewish defector-Julia Severa, a leading member of a distinguished Acmonian family. That she was high priestess of the imperial cult at Acmonia is clear, but that she was once a Jew cannot be proven; rather, she was a Gentile sympathizer who patronized the synagogue (Trebilco 1991: 59). More intriguing is the observation of Borgen (199j: 37) that T yrronius Klados and Tyrronius Rapon, who is associated with Julia Severa in other inscriptions (e.g., MAMA 6.265
=
CU 2.765) and on coins as a priest of the imperial cult, might be brothers or at least closely related. As Mitchell (1993: 2.9) notes: "The synagogue had been endowed by Julia Severa, a Gentile, just as any other temple might be; closely related persons associated with her held advertised positions, on the one hand in the synagogue, and on the other in the hierarchy of emperor worship.,,19 Does this mean that the one converted to Judalsm or that the other defected from it? For Borgen (1995: 36) "it is obvious that the apXl(Juvaywyo~ was a member of the Jewish community." But things are not so obvious. Some pagan associations called themselves a auvaywy~ and theif leaders aPXl(Juvaywyol (Kraemer 1991:145; Horsley 1987a: 4.113), so we might be dealing with a pagan rather than a Jewish association. If, as is usually assumed, the reference is to a Jewish synagogue, Tyrronius Klados may have been a convert to Judaism, or perhaps a pagan patron given the honorific title of apXl(Juvaywyo~
(Rajak and Noy 1993). Further, Tyrronius Rapon may have
been a client or freedman of Tyrronius Klados rather than his brother. But if
19 See further Ramsay (1897: 637-40,650-51) and Sheppard (1979: 170). Tyrronius Rapon's priestly role is surmised largely from his association with Julia Severa and is never clearly stated, even in MAMA 4.265. Ramsay, with some tenuous arguments, concluded that they were married and that they were both Jews. That T yrronius Rapon was a Jew may, as we have argued, be surmised on other grounds.
365
JEWISH DEFECTORS
Tyrronius Rapon was born a Jew, then he was probably a defector-not the most secure of evidence, admittedly, but possible nevertheless. 8. Of uncertain date is another inscription: To the Iunones [Iunonibus)! Annia L[ucii), a liberated Jew [Iuda). 1.576)
(eu
Frey (CU 1.576) thought that apart from the term luda the rest of the inscription smacked of paganism, because of the invocation of pagan spirits
(Iunones). Noy (1993: 1.19) thinks it is undoubtedly pagan too, but others are equally convinced that it is Jewish (Kant 1987: 683 n.79), and that it merely invokes spirits of the dead to protect the woman and her family. Kraemer wonders why she would use the appellation luda if she had renounced Judaism. She thinks Annia could have been a Jew who made offerings to pagan spirits, or a proselyte who believed the lunones were connected to childbirth, in which case "her simultaneous attachment to Judaism and her dedication to the Iunones seem considerably less incongruous" (1989: 42-43, quotation 43). Williams (1997a: 250) makes the interesting observation that Annia may have been named luda as a slave, since it was common for Greeks and Romans to name slaves after their country of origin. But if this means only that she was from Judea, it does not follow that she was Jewish. Again, the question of what is or what is not Jewish arises. Levinskaya (1996: 211) notes that if we assume that luda was used only to refer to Jews, and that Jews did not make dedications to pagan spirits, we are faced with a contradiction and must choose between how luda was used and what Jews can be assumed to have done. She inclines to the latter, and thinks we must stretch our view of what Jews in reality did. This seems most likely but, like [he earlier example ofMoschos, it raises the question of the line between accommodation and defection, and the degree to which the notion of accommodation can be stretched to include marginal Jewish groups or individuals. 9. From North Africa we have a number of examples dflted to the early fourth century CE: Mose(s) [plus chi-rho symbol) Sabbatiolus [plus chi-rho symbol)
366
TEXT AND ARTIFACT In memory [with chi-rho symbol] of the blessed Istablicus who is also called Donatus. Installed by his brother Peregrinus, who is also called Mosattes, once a Jew [de Iudeisl. (Le Bohec 1981: nos.l, 66, 75)
The significance of these epitaphs is that they appear to be in memory of men who had once been Jews, but were now Christians. Their Jewish identity is indicated by their names in the first two cases, and by the declaration that they were de Iudeis in the third. Le Bohec, who originally collected them, thought the first and third examples were converts to Christianity from Judaism. The second he understood to be a pagan judaizer who had converted, though it could as easily refer to a Jew (Figueras 1990: 205), or even to a Christian judaizer (Kant 1987: 707).20 The Christian element in each case is the appearance of the chi-rho symbol. Le Bohec was, I suspect, on the right track, but his evidence is not without its problems. The identification of ethnicity by name alone is problematic. 21 Devda (1997: 257-60) suggests that "Moses" was not used by Jews until the ninth century, while Williams (1997b: 224) puts forward some counter examples from the fourth century onward (all of them involving uncertain restorations of the text). In general the chi-rho symbol appears to indicate Christian affiliation. 22 On balance we are probably dealing with cases ofJewish defections to Christianity. The phrase de Iudeis in the third example, as Kant (1987: 707) notes, reminds us of oi. nOtE' IouocxtQt from Smyrna.
10. The final example, from Italy, in the fourth to fifth century eE, is fairly uncomplicated: Here lies Peter, who is [also called} Papario, son of Olympus the Jew [Iudaei], and the only one of his family/people [gens] who has deserved to attain the grace of Christ. ... (CI] 12.643a = Noy 1.8)
There is no doubt that we have here an example of Jewish defection to Christianity. It is probable that gens means Papario's family, or at most the Jews
20 Le Bohec (1981: 167) argues that a Christian would not likely use the name Moses in North Africa where anti-Semitism was rife. 21 See the comments of Horsley (1987b); also Rutgers's(1997) refutation of Curb era's attempt (1996) to find an allusion to a Jewish defector to Christianity on the basis of name alone. 22 Kr
JEWISH DEFECfORS
367
of his local community, since voluntary and forced conversions of Jews were not uncommon in the post-Constantinian era. 3. Conclusions Literary evidence indicates no reason to be reluctant in recognizing the phenomenon of defection. Of our inscriptional examples, 1would rank four (1, 2,9, 10) as fairly certain examples of defection and two (5,6) as unlikely. The remaining four present us with complex issues-mostly heuristic rather than transcriptional. The significance of names and other terms, their physical location and social context, and the extent to which they indicate Jewish identity complicate our attempts to interpret them, and in most of these respects they are inherently more problematic than literary sources. More significantly, they often present us with a choice between a verdict of accommodation and defection. This is an inherently difficult issue. Defining a defector, like defining a heretic, is as much, if not more, the decision of others than those supposedly involved. What individuals assert of themselves (e.g., that "1 am a Jew") does not necessarily contain the verdict of their community. Some people, after all, protest too much. In this, ancient sources are no more reliable than modern interpreters. TrebiIco (1991: 181-82) also notes that in "different situations the possibilities of completely avoiding pagan worship, of gaining exemption from involvement, of trying to avoid the occasions when pagan worship occurred, of'turning a blind eye,' or of accepting pagan worship and taking part all remain." True enough, and the common wisdom is that the boundaries of Judaism were broader and more flexible than the normative traditions indicate. Also true, yet we may become so familiar with this notion that our concept of} ewish accommodation recognizes no limits-perhaps often those limits which the majority ofJews would have drawn rather more sharply than we are currently inclined to do. 1 would suggest that the notion of acceptable Jewish accommodation, or syncretism, or whatever else we may wish to call it, has been overplayed, and would thus tend to tip the ambiguous four cautiously into the camp of defectors too.
368
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
References Applebaum, Shimon
1979
Jews and Greeks in Ancient Cyrene. Leiden: Brill.
Barclay, John M. G.
1996
Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora: From Alexander BCE-Ill CE). Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark.
to
Trajan (323
Bernand, Andre
1972 Le Paneion d'e! Kanais: Les inscriptions grecques. Leiden: Brill. Borgen, Peder 1995 '''Yes,' 'No,' 'How Far?' The Participation ofJews and Christians in Pagan Cults." In Traels Engberg-Pedersen (ed.), Paul in His Hellenistic Context, 30-59. Minneapolis: Fortress. Cohen, Shaye J. D. 1990 "Religion, Ethnicity and 'Hellenism' in the Emergence of Jewish Identity in Maccabean Palestine." In Per Bilde, Traels EngbergPedersen, Lise Hannestad and Jan Zahle (eds.), Religion and Religious Practice in the Seleucid Kingdom, 204-23. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. '" . IOT e..AIOl: TO rENO~' and Related Expressions in Josephus." In 1994 Fausto Parente and Joseph Sievers (eds.), Josephus and the History oj the Graeco-Roman Period: Essays in Memory oJMorton Smith, 22-38. Leiden: Brill. Curbera, J. B. "Jewish Names from Sicily." ZeiL~chrift fur Papyrologie und Epigraphik 1996 110: 297 -300. Devda, T omasz 1997 "Did the Jews Use the Name Moses in Antiquity?" Zeitschrift fur Papyrologie und Epigraphik 115: 257-60. Figueras, Paul "Epigraphic Evidence for Proselytism in Ancient Judaism." Immanuel 1990 24/25: 194-206. Goodenough, Erwin R. 1956 "The Bosphorus Inscriptlons to the Most High God." Jewish Quarterly Review 47: 221-44. Goodman, Martin "Jews and Judaism in the Mediterranean Diaspora in the Late Roman 1994 Period: The Limitations of Evidence." Journal of Mediterranean Studies 4: 208-24.
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Horbury, William and David Noy
1992
Jewish Inscriptions of Graeeo-Roman Egypt. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press. Horsley, G. H. R.
1981
New Documents Illustrating Early Christianity, Vol. 1: A Review of the Greek Inscriptions and Papyri Published in 1976. North Ryde, NSW: Macquarie University Ancient History Documentary Research Centre.
1987a
New Documents Illustrating Early Christianity, Vol. 4: A Review of the Greek Inscriptions and Papyri PublL,hed in 1979. North Ryde, NSW:
Macquade University Ancient History Documentary Research Centre. "Name Change as an Indicator of Religious Conversion in 1987b Antiquity." Numen 34: 1-17. Kant, Laurence H. "Jewish Inscriptions in Greek and Latin." In Hildegard Temporini 1987 and Wolfgang Haase (eds.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der ramischen Welt, 2.20.2.671-713. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Kraabel, A. Thomas 1982 "The Roman Diaspora: Six Questionable Assumptions." Journal of Jewish Studies 33: 445-64. Kraemer, Ross S. 1989 "On the Meaning of the Term 'Jew' in Greco-Roman Inscriptions." Harvard Theological Review 82: 35-53. 1991 "Jewish Tuna and Christian Fish: Identifying Religious Affiliation in Epigraphic Sources." Harvard Theological Review 84: 141-62. Le Bohec, Yann "Inscriptions juives et judaIsantes de I'afrique romaine." Antiquites 1981 africaines 17: 165-207. Levinskaya, Irina
1996
The Book of Acts in Its First Century Setting, Vol. 5: The Book of Acts in Its Diaspora Setting. Grand Rapids/Carlisle: EerdmanslPaternoster.
Lewis, David M. 1957 "The First Greek Jew." Journal of Semitic Studies 2: 264-66. Lifshitz, Baruch "Beitrage zur palastinischen Epigraphik." Zeitschrift fur deutschen 1962 Paliistina-Verein 78: 64-88. Millar, Fergus 1983 "Epigraphy." In Michael Crawford (ed.) , Sources for Ancient History, 80-136. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
370
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Mitchell, Stephen
1993
Anatolia: Land, Men, and Gods in Asia Minor. 2 vols. OxfordlNew York; Clarendon/Oxford University Press.
Noy, David
1993
Jewish Inscriptions of Westem Europe, Vol. 1: Italy (Excluding the City of Rome), Spain and Gaul. Cambridge; Cambridge University Press.
Rajak, Tessa and David Noy
1993
"Archisynagogoi; Office, Title and Social Status in the Graeco-Jewish Synagogue." Journal of Roman Studies 83: 80-98.
Ramsay, W. M.
1897
Cities and Bishoprics of Phrygia. Vol. 1, Part 2. Oxford; Clarendon.
Rutgers, Leonard Victor
1995
Thejews in Late Ancient Rome: Evidence of Cultural Interaction in the Roman Diaspora. LeiJen; Brill.
1997
"Interaction and Its Limits: Some Notes on the Jews of Sicily in Late Antiquity." Zeitschrift fur Papyrologze und Epigraphik 115; 245 -56.
Schilrer, Emil
1973-87
The History of the]ewish People in the Age ofJesus Christ (175 B.C.-A.D. 135).4 vo[s. Ed. and rev. by Geza Vermes, Fergus Millar, Matthew Black and Martin Goodman. Edinburgh; T. & T. Clark.
Sheppard, A. R. R. 1979 "Jews, Christians and Heretics in Acmonia and Eumeneia." Anatolian Studies 24; 169-80. Smallwood, E. Mary 1976 The}ews Under Roman Rule: From Pompey to Diocletian.leiden: Brill. Solin, Heikki "Juden und Syrer im westlichen Teil der romischen Welt. Eine 1983 ethnisch-demographische Studie mit besonderer Berilchsichtigung der sprachlichen Zustande." In Wolfgang Haase (ed.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der r&mischen Welt, 2.29.2.587-789. Berlin: De Gruyter. Tomson, Peter J. 1986 "The Names Israel and Jew in Ancient Judaism and in the New Testament." Bijdragen, Tijdschrift voor Filosofie en Theologie 47: 12040,266-89. Trebilco, Paul R. 1991 Jewish Communities in Asia Minor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Van der Horst, Pieter W. 1991 Ancientlewish Epitaphs: An Introductory Survey of a Millennium of Jewish Funerary Epigraphy (300 BCE-700 CE). Kampen: Kok Pharos.
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Van Henten, Jan Willem and Alice J. Bij de Vaate "Jewish or Non-Jewish? Some Remarks on the Identification of 1996 Jewish Inscriptions in Asia Minor." Bibliotheca Orientalis 53: 16-28. Williams, M. H. "The Meaning and Function of Ioudaios in Graeco-Roman 1997a Inscriptions." Zeitschrift fur Papyrologie und Epigraphik 116: 249-62. "Jewish Use of Moses as a Personal Name in Graeco-Roman 1997b Antiquity-A Note." Zeitschrift jur Papyrologie und Epigraphik 118: 274.
22 JERUSALEM OSSUARY INSCRIPTIONS AND THE STATUS OF JEWISH PROSELYTES! TERENCE L. DOKALDSON
According to sources as diverse as Philo and the rabbis, proselytes to Judaism in antiquity enjoyed equal status with native-born Jews. "When he comes up after his ablution," says one rabbinic tradition with respect to a newly made proselyte, "he is deemed
to
be an Israelite in all respects."z Philo too speaks of the "equal
rank" (iao1:Lj..t.(cxv, iaOn~AEtCXv) and "equal privilege" (iaovol..I.(cxv)3 of the proselyte 4 (Spec.
ug.
1.52-53), and reminds "all members of the nation" that
Moses has commanded them "to love the incomers, not only as friends and kinsfolk, but as themselves both in body and in soul" (Virt. 103). Yet the mere fact that Philo has to insist on the point suggests that theoretical equality did not always translate into social reality. In fact, with respect to the rabbinic material one can speak of theoretical equality only within certain limits, for it is clear that proselytes continued to exist as a special category, lower in status than the native-born Israelite. Unlike the native-born, for example, proselytes could not refer to the patriarchs as "our fathers" (m.
Bik. 1.4). In listings of various classes within Israel, proselytes are differentiated
I am delighted to have this opportunity to demonstrate my appreciation for Peter Richardson, who has done much to stimulate my interest in archaeological and other non-textual forms of evidence. In particular, it was while I was enjoying his company in JeTIIsalem in the spring of 1995 that I did much of the investigation on which this paper is based. 2 B. Yeb. 47b. The statement that a proselyte is like a newborn infant (e.g., b. Yeb. 48b; 62a; 17. Bek. 47a) moves in the same direction. 3 The terms have civic and political overtones: iaotCAEtlX, for example, is used of a favoured class of resident aliens subject to the same taxation regulations as full citizens; ioovoJ..l fa is used of political rights (see Liddell et al. 1940). 4 Philo's preferred term is "incomer" (er;TJAu~), which he lIses as a synonym for "proselyte" (np00tlAUtOC;) when he encounters the latter in the LXX.
JERUSALEM OSSUARY INSCRIPTIONS
373
from Israelites and occupy a decidedly inferior status; unlike Israelites, for example, they are prohibited from marrying priests but are allowed to marry ba:>tards, foundlings and olhers of questionable origin. s This status ambiguity has been often observed in scholarly discussion, albeit with varying emphases. 6 Most of the relevant evidence is literary, and this, understandably, is where the discllssion has tended to centre. There is another body of evidence that deserves to be brought more fully into the discussion, however, especially since it reflects social realia much more directly. I refer to the evidence from inscriptions. The recent publication of the inscriptions from Aphrodisias (Reynolds and Tannenbaum 1987) and from the Akeldama tombs in Jerusalem (Avni and Greenhut 1996) has brought to eighteen the number of known inscriptions that refer explicitly to proselytes. 7 Seven of these are from the catacombs in Rome,8 six from Jerusalem,9 and single inscriptions come from Venosa (ltaly),10 Cyrene (Liideritz 1983: 26, no.12), Caesarea Maritima (Lifshitz 1961: 115, no.2), Aphrodisias (Reynolds and Tannenbaum 1987: 5-7) and Dura Europos (Naveh 1978: 127, no.88). Except for two synagogue inscriptions (Aphrodisias and Dura Europos), these are all epitaphs. Since the Aphrodisias inscription refers to three distinct proselytes, the inscriptional evidence now totals twenty individuals. 11
5 M. Qid. 4.1; m. HOT. 3.8; similar lists are found in CD 14.4-6; 4QFlor 1.4. 6 Moore, for example, in his survey of the evidence places the emphasis on equality, although he observes that "equality in law and religion does not necessarily carry with it complete social equality, and the Jews would have been singularly unlike the rest of mankind if they had felt no superiority to their heathen converts" (1927: 33;). For Cohen, by contrast, "in the eyes of (some?) Jews, a Gentile who converted to Judaism became not a Jew but a proselyte, that is, a Jew of a peculiar sort" (1989: 30). See also Schiirer (1986: 175-76); Feldman (1993: 338-41); Goodman (1994: 63); Parton (1994: esp. 1-15). 7 For lists of these see Figueras (1990) and Levinskaya (1996: 25-26). 8 Cl], Corpus inscriptionum iudaicarum (Frey 1936-52), 1: nos.2I, 68, 202, 222,256,462, 523; also found in Nay (1995): nos.489, 491, 392, 224, 218, 62, 577. 9 To be discussed below. 10 Cl] 1: no.576 = Nay (1993): no.52. 11 No doubt other proselytes are included among the 2,000 or so known Jewish inscriptions without being identified as such (for the figure, see van der Horst 1991: 15). Kraemer (1989), for example, suggests that the term "Jew" might signal various forms of Gentile adherence to Judaism, including full conversion. Observing that the name "Sarah" was sometimes assumed by proselytes, Applebaum (1979: 154) suggests that several such inscriptions in Cyrene might indicate proselytes.
374
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Spanning three or four centuries and three continents, these inscriptions do not speak with a single voice. Nor should we expect them to; recent study has increasingly recognized the degree of diversity and local variation that characterized religion in Roman antiquity, Judaism included. We should not homogenize these references, then, in any attempt to construct a single, all-encompassing picture. For this reason, as well as considerations of space, I propose in this essay to examine one group of proselyte inscriptions-those from Jerusalem-with a view to seeing what light they might shed on the social status of converts in this particular time and place. Shaye Cohen, one of the few authors to make any use of inscriptional evidence in this regard, provides us with a reading of the evidence that will serve as a convenient point of entry into the material. In his oft-cited study of the degrees of Gentile attachment to Judaism, he has this to say about proselyte inscriptions (1989: 29-30): Many epitaphs and synagogue inscriptions attach the label "proselyte" after the name of the person being commemorated. This practice highlights the ambiguity. On the one hand, the Jewish community accorded "membership" status to the proselyte; he or she could obtain honor and power in his or her adopted community. On the other hand, the membership status of the proselyte was anomalous, and the proselyte felt obligated (was obligated?) to call attention to this fact. This assessment raises several questions to be kept in mind as we look more closely at the Jerusalem evidence. Why were these individuals referred to as proselytes? What was the function of these inscriptional references? In particular, was there indeed some perceived obligation to call attention to the anomalous status of the person so described? The six inscriptions, listed more or less in the order of their discovery, are as follows:
1. npJnil n~lm il)lD / Maria the proselyte ha_doleqet 12 This inscription, along with the second one to be discussed, was discovered by chance in the latter part of the nineteenth century, when archaeological
12 CU 2: no.1390. See also Sukenik (1931: 18), Bagatti (1971: 237-38) and Figueras (1990: 196).
JERUSALEM OSSUARY INSCRIPTIONS
375
record-keeping was much less rigorous than today. All that is documented is that it was found in a gravesite on a hill north of the Mount of Olives. 13 While Maria is clearly identified as a (female) proselyte, 14 there is uncertainty about the sense of the third word. Ha-doleqet (np'J11il) is a participial form of the verb
P':", which is used in biblical and Mishnaic Hebrew with the meanings
"to burn" (both transitive [e.g., Obad 1: 18] and intransitive [e.g., Ps 7: 13; Prov 26:23]) and "to pursue hotly" (e.g., Gen 31:36; 1 Sam 17:53). Some have interpreted the word figuratively as a description of Maria's fervour ("the fervent proselyte"); others take it literally as a reference to her occupation ("the lamplighter,,).15 Any attempt to resolve the ambiguity will lead into issues pertinent
to
the essay as a whole, and so is best left until later.
2. IOT6ATOI.: Ab;rANIONOI: IIPOI:HATrO'Y' I [Ossuary1 of Judah, of Laganion, proselyte
Carefully chiselled onto the end of an ossuary now located in the archaeological museum at St. Anne's Church in Jerusalem, this inscription also presents problems of interpretation. Was Laganion the father of Judah, the genitive form being used (as is often the case) to indicate paternity?17 If so, who was the proselyte: Judah or Laganion? While it was common for proselytes to take the name Judah (Han 1991 ·92: 154-55), it is also normally the case that the designation "proselyte" follows the name of the person so designated. 18 Or is Laganion, which is not well attested as a personal name, to be seen instead as a place name, the geographical origin of Judah the proselyte? Again, the ambiguity is pertinent to the issue under discussion, and will be picked up later.
13 According to Frey the hill is named Viri Galilaei. On the chance nature of the discoveries see Sukenik (1931: 20). 14 Although in place of the more usual spelling )11Pl (e.g., m, Ket. 4.3), we have )1)1l, which also appears in no.3, discussed below. 15 For:J discussion of the readings see [
376
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
The next three inscriptions come from a massive cemetery discovered in
1953 on the grounds of Dominus Flevit, 19 the Franciscan chapel halfway up the Mount of Olives directly across from the Haram esh-Sharif or Temple Mount. Excavations revealed a total of more than 500 separate chambers, grouped into some seventy-five identifiable tombs or sepulchres, containing 122 ossuaries and seven sarcophagi. Forty-three of the ossuaries contained inscriptions, and three of these identified the occupants as proselytes.
3. 11'1::1il 017'0/ Salome the proselyte 20 Salome's ossuary was found in the tomb of the family of Agra, a large tomb with twelve separate chambers, containing a total of twenty-seven ossuaries, eleven of which were inscribed. The inscription is straightforward, except for the unusual spelling of 11")il ([female] proselyte), found also in the first inscription listed above. 4. IOY,1AN IIPOEHATIOr 1TTPA / Judah the proselyte from Tyre
21
The two remaining inscriptions from Dominus Hevit are in Greek. The ossuary of Judah was one of twenty-five ossuaries in another large tomb (sixteen chambers); fourteen of the twenty-five were inscribed. Bagatti and Milik interpreted the ~ (following IOY,1A) as an abbreviation ofNEOTEPOY (the younger) and TYPA as "cheesemaker" (cf. 'n3poc; [cheese]). But there is other epigraphic evidence for the form IOY,1AN, and TYPA is clearly a reference to the city of Tyre (Figueras 1990: 197). 5. ,1IOfENHE IIPOEHATIOE ZHNA / Diogenes the proselyte, [of?] Zena 22
Diogenes is the only one of the Jerusalem proselytes to bear a pagan name. His ossuary was found in a smaller tomb (eight chambers) which contained two sarcophagi and twenty-two ossuaries; only three of the ossuaries were inscribed.
19 "The Lord wept," from Luke 19:39-44. Finds from the excavation are on display at a museum in the Franciscan Monastery of the Flagellation, in the old city. For documentation, see Bagatti and Milik (1958). 20 Bagatti and Milik (1958: 95, n031; also pp, 18-19 for a description of the tomb in which it was found); Figueras (1990: 196), 21 Bagatti and Milik (1958: 84, no.13; also pp. 6-7 for a description of the tomb); Figueras (1990: 197), 22 Bagatti and Milik (1958: 89, no.21; for the tomb, pp, 12-14); Figueras (1990: 196-97),
JERUSALEM OSSUARY INSCRIPTIONS
377
One of the other inscriptions was found in the same chamber, this one referring to Menahem, a priest. Figueras takes Zena to be the name of the father, but there is little evidence for such a name. In any case, the issue will need to be discussed below. 6. API~TQ1'J3 1)));1 il1lil\ )y')!)N. )l\JtJ1N. / Ariston, Ariston of Apamea, Judah
the proselyte
During road construction in the summer of 1989, near the junction of the Kidron and Hinnom valleys and close to the Akeldama monastery, three burial caves were found, containing one sarcophagus and forty ossuaries, twenty-three of them with inscriptions. The inscription under discussion here, scratched in a rough hand on the back of ossuary 31, contains three lines: "Ariston," in Greek; "Ariston of Apamea," in Hebrew; and "Judah the proselyte," also in Hebrew. Z4 The ossuary of Judah the proselyte was found in an ossuary repository in Cave 3, an elegantly constructed tomb apparently belonging to a certain Ariston of Apamea, whose name appears on this ossuary, as well as two others belonging to his children. 25 Intriguingly, the Mishnah also makes reference to an Ariston of Apamea (m. Hal. 4.11), in the context of a discussion concerning the legitimacy of first fruits being brought from the Diaspora to Jerusalem. The similarity in name and circumstances lead Han to the plausible conclusion that the same person is referred to in both instances. 26 Since ossuaries not infrequently contain the bones of more than one person,27 the simplest way of accounting for the presence of two names (Ariston and Judah) is to see this as another example of double occupancy. The phenomenon is rare in the Akeldama tombs, however, and Han, observing also that Judah is the name most often adopted by proselytes, has suggested that Ariston and Judah were one and the same, Ariston having adopted the Hebrew name Judah when he converted to Judaism (Han 1991-92: 154-55; 1996: 66).
23 Avni and Greenhut (1996: 53, 66; no. 19, ossuary 31). 24 While recognizably Hebrew (the definite article ill, the inscription is closer in spelling to the Aramaic (NlP)) than to the Hebrew (l)). 25 Selampsin (n05.16-17, ossuary 28) and Shalom (nos.22-23, ossuary 35). 26 llan (1991-92: 150-54); Avni, Greenhut and Han (1994: 215). 27 Ossuary 34 bears an inscription (no.21) referring to four members of one family. There are additional examples at Beth She'arim (nos.23, 36,42,60,61); see Schwabe and Lifshitll (1974).
378
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
While this is possible, 23 several pieces of evidence combine to make it unlikely. First, the name Ariston is used by Jews in the period;29 the name itself does not necessarily indicate a Gentile. Second, the reference in m. Halla 4.11 to Ariston of Apamea contains no hint that Ariston might have been a proselyte, a fact of some significance if the two Aristons are to be equated. If they are distinct persons, the Mishnah reference demonstrates at least that the name was borne by Jews. Third, since "Ariston" appears on the ossuaries of two of his own children (in both Greek and Hebrew), it is clear that this was the name by which he was known and remembered; if Judah was his Jewish name, it was surprisingly little used. Finally, it is possible that the third line was inscribed by a different hand, which would suggest a later burial. Thus it is more likely that ossuary 31 contained the bones of two persons: Ariston, a wealthy DiasporaJew who had immigrated to Jerusalem from Syria; and another member of the family, originally Gentile, who had become a proselyte to Judaism and had taken the name Judah upon conversion. Thus we have a set of six inscriptions from Jerusalem pertaining to Jewish proselytes. 3D Four of them are male, two female; three of the inscriptions are in Greek, two in Hebrew, and one is bilingual (Greek and Hebrew); five of the six names are Jewish, presumably new names adopted at conversion. The inscriptions all date from a period of about a century, ending with the destruction of Jerusalem in 70 CE,3) and they come from four separate cemeteries, two of which have been thoroughly excavated and well documented. What light can these inscriptions shed on the social circumstances and status of a proselyte in first-century Jerusalem? In particular, why were these persons identified in burial as proselytes? What was the function of this description? To address these questions, we need to compare the inscriptions
28 There is at least one example (albeit from a later period) of an inscription with two names for one person, one a birth name and the other the name taken on conversion; an inscription from Rome (CU 1: no.523) refers to a certain Beturia Paucla, "who lived eighty-six years and six months, a proselyte for sixteen years, Sara by name." But in contrast to the Akeldama inscription, this more detailed text makes it completely clear that a single individual is in view. 29 For references see Ilan (1996: 66). 30 Bagatti has attempted to argue that the Dominus Flevit cemetery was Jewish Christian, and that the proselytes were Je\\
JERUSALEM OSSUARY INSCRIPTIONS
379
with other Jewish epitaphs, especially those from Jerusalem stemming from the same period. The observations to follow are based on the inscriptional evidence from Dominus Flevit and the Akeldama tombs, together with the Jerusalem epitaphs documented by Frey in Corpus inscriptionum iudaicarum, with sidelong glances for comparative purposes at the evidence from Beth She'arim and Rome. 32 The most striking observation to be made about the Jerusalem inscriptions, especially in contrast to the later ones from Rome, is their brevity.33 Many consist simply of the name of the deceased: at least twelve of the twenty-one instances at Akeldama,34 fourteen or fifteen of the forty-three at Dominus Flevit,35 and well over half of the approximately 175 inscriptions listed in CU. Virtually absent are any words of praise, terms of endearment, indications of age at death, expressions of sorrow, or statements of encouragement addressed directly to the deceased, such as are found at Beth She'arim,36 Rome 37 and elsewhere. 38 The Jerusalem material surveyed contains only three brief examples of epithetical material: "Alas" (CU 2: no.1222); "Peace" (CU 2: no.1226); "Do not open" (CU 2: no.l359).
32 Dominus Flevit. see Bagatti and Milik (1958: 70.100); Akeldama, see Han (1996); other Jerusalem epitaphs, see CU 2: nos.1212-I389; Beth She'arim, see Mazar (1973) and Schwabe and Lifshitz (1974); Rome, see Leon and Osiek (1995: 263·346). 33 Noted also by Sukenik (1931: 14) and Figueras (1983: 12·13). 34 The inscription on the sarcophagus (no.9) reads: "Of Eros and Hermione, of Doras." It is not clear whether Doras is the mother of the other two, or if the tomb contains the remains of three persons. If the latter, then this would be the thirteenth instance. 35 No,10 is fragmentary ([ ]Kouvoa), but appears to be a single name; no.37 has four Greek names and one in Semitic script, with no clear indication of the relationship among them. 36 E,g., peace wishes (voL 1: nos.l8, 23,98; voL 2: nos,28, 29); "may yourlot be good" (voL 2: no5.2, 3,5,6,7,9, 13,26,27,33,47,52,56,57); "have courage" (vol. 2: nos.22, 29, 39, 40, 41,43, 59); description of the deceased as "pious" (vol. 2: nosJ4, 41, 43, 44) or as "beloved" (vol. 2: no.29), 37 There is no need to provide a complete list; the following list (found in nos.!· 100 in Leon's collection) is representative: various terms of endearment (nos. 1, 43,68,70,84,85,96); indications of age (nos, 1, 9,10, 13, 17,21,25,28,30,38,44,45,51,55,56,68,69,71, 88, 90, 99, 100); indications of rank or accomplishment (e.g., archon, father of the synagogue; l1os.4. 13,26,78,85,88,93, 100); statements that the deceased "lived a good life" (nos.9, 23,28,82); other words of praise (nosJ4, 48,79,86,93); the farewell wish "in peace you sleep" (nosJ, 7, 16, 18,20,24,32,35,41,44,50,55,69,81,84,85,86,88, 90,92,93,95,100). 38 For a full description of such aspects of Jewish epitaphs, see van der Horst (1991: esp. 40·72).
380
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Where there is material in addition to the name of the deceased, the most common item is an indication of the person's father: five or six such instances at Akeldama,39 eighteen at Dominus Flevil and fifty-one in the CI] collection. The description of a certain Megiste as a "priestess" (i.e., daughter of a priest; Akeldama: no.8) is a variation on the same theme. In addition, Dominus Flevit contains two inscriptions where the mother is indicated. Inscription no.8 refers to "Salome and her son," presumably someone who died in childbirth; another fragmentary inscription (no. 14 ) might reflect a similar circumstance. Less common, but still appearing with some regularity in the case of women, is the name of the dead woman's husband. 4o Several other indications of family relationships appear: the identification of the deceased as "our father" (CI] 2: no. 1359) or "our mother" (CI] 2: no. 1363; Dominus Flevit: no.39); a fragment from what was presumably a large ossuary containing the remains not only of "Natira," but also of the "brother, father, mother of Natira" (Akeldama: no.21); a description of someone as the "younger" (CI] 2: no.1274) or the "elder" (CI] 2: no.12 77). In addition to family relationships, several other items appear alongside the name. On a number of occasions, persons are identified by their city or region of originY In other instances, there is an indication of the person's status or occupation: rabbi (CI] 2: no.1218), priest (CI] 2: no.1221),42 teacher (CI] 2: no.1269), scribe (CI] 2: no.1308), artisan or carpenter (Dominus Flevit: no. 12) . Both location and occupation appear in the intriguing reference to "Nicanor of Alexandria, who made the doors" (CI] 2: no.1256). Somewhat related, but nevertheless unique in that it does not concern the deceased directly, is a reference in one of the Akeldama inscriptions (no.7) to the craftsperson who made the ossuary itself. The first observation to emerge from this survey is the private nature of all these inscriptions. 43 These are private family tombs for the most part. Only in rare cases are the inscriptions professionally carved; generally they are just
39 In no.3, the word accompanying the name could be reconstructed as either "ofSeleucia» or "[daughter] of Seleucus." 40 Ten instances in the CI] collection; one further instance at Dominus Flevit (no.38). 41 Cl] 2; nos. I 228, 1233, 1256, 1372, 1373,1375; Dominus Flevit: no.9. 42 In addition, several fathers of the deceased are identified as priests (Clj 2; no.1317; Akeldama: no.B; Dominus Flevit: no.22). 43 On this point see Sukenik (1931: 14).
]ERUSALEM OSSUARY INSCRIITIONS
381
scratched into the surface of the ossuary, presumably by a family member. In other words, no attempt was being made here to erect a public monument to the dead or to make a statement to the wider world. This suggests as a consequence that the primary function of ossuary inscriptions was one of identification, a conclusion that is borne out by the content of the inscriptions. Ossuary inscriptions contain only such information as would be sufficient to identify the person whose remains were enclosed. Often, presumably because these were family tombs, a name was all that was required. In Greek inscriptions, identification was frequently accomplished by the use of the genitive form of the name-"[this is the ossuary] of X." Where more information was needed, the name of the deceased was accompanied by the name of the father, the most basic means of identification in Jewish society. Those who were not native to Jerusalem, but whose bones had been transferred to Jerusalem for burial or (more probably) who had immigrated to Jerusalem during their lifetime,44 were identified by their place of origin, presumably because their family would not have been known in Jerusalem. In the few instances where a title or occupation appears, this is almost always the only item of information to appear in addition to the name. The one exception is the ossuary of "Nicanor of Alexandria, who made the doors" (CU 2: no.1256). This suggests once again that inscriptional content has been chosen for purposes of identification; here, for whatever reason, occupation or title was more appropriate than father's name or home town as a means of identification. This conclusion suggests that "proselyte" appears in inscriptions primarily for purposes of identification as well. Let us look at the proselyte inscriptions once again: (1) Maria the proselyte ha-doleqet (np'Jnil); (2) [Ossuary] of Judah, of Laganion, proselyte; (3) Salome the proselyte; (4) Judah the proselyte from Tyre; (5) Diogenes the proselyte, [of?] Zena; (6) Ariston, Ariston of Apamea, Judah the proselyte. In at least one case (Salome; no.3) , "proselyte" is the only element in addition to the name. On the probable assumption that Judah (no.6) is not the same person as Ariston, this ossuary from Akeldama represents a second case. In another instance Oudah; noA), the name of the proselyte is supplemented by his city of origin (Tyre).
44 Figueras cites the case of Helena and her son Izates Oosephus, Ant. 20.95) as evidence for the fonner possibility (1983: 15). But in view of Queen Helena's long residence in Jerusalem, the case provides just as much evidence for the latter.
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The other three cases contain elements of ambiguity. With respect to Maria (no. 1) , "lamplighter" is unlikely, in that it would require a causative form of the verb (hiphil). "Fervent" is no more probable, in that there is little evidence for a figurative usage of the verb, and in any case there were other more appropriate words that would have come more readily to hand (e.g., zealous). On the basis of the other Jerusalem inscriptions it seems safe to conclude that the term was used for purposes of identification, but its precise meaning remains elusive. With respect to each of the remaining cases (nos.2, 5), the suggestion has been made (see above) that the second name (Laganion, Zena) is that of the father of the proselyte Oudah in each case). This I take to be quite unlikely. In none of the other eighteen proselyte inscriptions is the name of the father given. Indeed, since the father's name was part of the proselyte's former identity left behind at conversion, it would be quite unlikely as a means of identification in the new Jewish context. In these cases, then, other interpretations arc to be preferred. Again, certainty is not possible. But on the analogy of no.4 Oudah the proselyte from Tyre) , "Zena" (no.5) is probably to be seen as a place name (Diogenes the proselyte from Zena). While it is not impossible that Laganion is a place name, since "proselyte" everywhere else follows immediately after the convert's name, it seems more probable that Laganion is the name of the proselyte himself, Judah (the deceased) being his son. Thus we can conclude that "proselyte" was used on ossuary inscriptions in Jerusalem for purposes of identification, that is, to help indicate the identity of the deceased. In several cases, this identifying mark was supplemented by the proselyte's place of origin and, in one case perhaps, by the proselyte's occupation. But in several other cases, "proselyte" stands as the only addition to the name itself. For converts, then, "proselyte" was a basic and fundamental
means of identification. In a previous paragraph it was observed that the father's name is (likely) absent from proselyte inscriptions. This observation can be pressed further: evidence suggests that "proselyte" functioned as a kind of substitute patronymic. This evidence comes from several other inscriptions where the name of a person identified as a proselyte appears as part of a longer list of Oewish) names, and where the others are all in the form "A, son of B." A tomb in Cyrenaica, for example, contains the following inscription: "Joses [son] of
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Crispus, four [years oldl; Quintus [sonl of Quintus, fifteen; Luke [sonl of Gaius, fifty-eight; Sara, the proselyte, eighteen" (Liideritz 1983: 26 no.12). Likewise the inscription from the Dura Europos synagogue: "Samuel [son of Slafra and [ArsachJ the proselyte" (Naveh 1978: 127 no.88). While the Aphrodisias inscription contains a higher proportion of other qualifiers, the evidence nevertheless tends in the same direction. 45 In these cases, then, "proselyte" occupies the slot normally filled by the name of the father. This, of course, is more than coincidental. The most fundamental way of identifying a person in Jewish society was by means of his or her father's name. This was the person's badge of membership in the community ofIsrael, his or her link to the chain of generations stretching back to Abraham and Sarah. A proselyte, however, had no such link; his or her badge of membership was found in the status of "proselyte" itself. If my reading of the Laganion inscription is correct {"Judah, son of Laganion the proselyte"}, in this case even being the offspring of a proselyte is not enough to establish the link; "proselyte" continues to be an identifying mark for the second generation as wel1. 46 For converts, therefore, "proselyte" functioned as a substitute for the usual identifier "son of" or "daughter of," and thus was a fundamental element of personal identification. Accordingly, in a situation where clear personal identification was called for-such as the inscription on an ossuary"proselyte" was the first element to be added to the name itself. This conclusion leads us back to the question of status with which we began. I have two observations to make. First, Cohen's suggestion that the term is used on inscriptions because "the proselyte felt obligated (was obligated?) to call attention" to his or her anomalous status (Cohen 1989: 29-30) is not supported by the evidence surveyed here. In the case of the Jerusalem ossuaries, at least, proselytes were not being singled out for special treatment. The term appears here not as the result of any sense of obligation resting on proselytes as a distinct category. The only obligation operative is to identify the deceased clearly, and this obligation fell equally on proselytes and native-born Jews alike.
45 E.g., col. 1, II. 22-24: "Joseph [sonl of Eusebius the proselyte, and Judas [sonl of Theodorus, and /\mipeos [sonl of Hermes." See Reynolds and Tannenbaum (1987: 5). 46 Simon bar Giora, the leader in the Jewish revolt, might be another case in point. See also the comment in the Mishnah that one should not reproach the descendant of a proselyte for the deeds of his ancestors (m. B. Me~. 4.10).
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The difference is that the fundamental means of identification in Jewish society-the father's name-was not available to proselytes. This difference is not insignificant, and it leads to a second observation, concerning the fundamental ambiguity inherent in the status of the proselyte. On the one hand, the burial evidence demonstrates how fully proselytes have been incorporated into Jewish society.47 As can be seen clearly in the evidence from Dominus Flevit and Akeldama, these proselytes have been fully included in family tombs, found in completely Jewish burial grounds. The names tell part of the tale. At Dominus Flevit, Diogenes shared a tomb with a Joseph (no.20) and a priest by the name of Menahem (no.22). Judah's tomb-mates included two Shimons (nos.5, 11), Ishmael (no.6), Martha and Maria (no.7) , Salome (no.S) and Yehoni (no.ll). Salome was laid to rest with Azariah son of Zachariah (no.30), Tobiah (no.33), Hananiah son of Samuel (no.34), Azariah son of Zachariah (no.36), Zachariah, Mariame, Elazar, Shimon (all in no.37) , Salome (no.38), Martha (no.39) and Joshua (noAO). A similar list of Jewish names emerges from the family tomb (Cave 3) in which Judah the proselyte was laid to rest at Akeldama. The more striking observation from Akeldama is that Judah occupied the same ossuary as Ariston, the patriarch of the family; it is difficult to imagine how full incorporation into the family could have been signalled any more clearly than this! Likewise at Dominus Flevit the proselyte Diogenes was in the same burial chamber as the priest Menahem. Other than the inscriptions themselves, then, there is nothing to indicate that these persons were treated any differently than other members of the family. On the other hand, unlike the other members of their families, these proselytes cannot indicate their membership in the family by pointing to theif line of descent. While "proselyte" appears on ossuaries simply as a means of identification, it nevertheless points to an irreducible difference in identity between the proselyte and the native-born Jew. The proselyte may be fully incorporated into the family and the society, but on the basis of a different and ineradicable badge of membership.
47 Goodman is doubly wrong in his statement, citing Cohen, that Jews thought of proselytes not as Jews but "as a special sort of Gentile" (1994: 63). First, the evidence is unequivocal that proselytes were seen as those who had left their Gentile identity behind; second, in keeping with this, Cohen's statement in actuality was that a proselyte was seen as "a Jew of a pecu liar sort" (1989: 30).
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This ambiguity in the status of the proselyte, however, reflects a fundamental ambiguity in the nature of}udaism itself in this period. As Porton has pointed out, Judaism had a twofold conception of its identity: "On the one hand, it was an ethnic system designed for native-born Israelites. On the other hand, it was a religious system open to all who accepted its beliefs and practices" (Parton 1994: 220) .48 Judaism existed both as an ethnic community, whose members shared a common ancestry, and as a religious community, whose members were bound together by a common set of beliefs and practices. For most members of the community, the two modes of identification overlapped and coalesced. For proselytes (and in a different way for apostates) the two definitions were at odds, and the ambiguity inherent in Judaism was made apparent in the proselyte's very identity.
48 While his statement pertains period as well.
to
rabbinic Judaism, it is relevant to the Second Temple
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References Applebaum, Shimon
1979
Jews and Greeks in Ancient Cyrene. Leiden: Brill.
Avni, Gideon and Zvi Greenhut, eds.
1996
The Akeldama Tombs: Three Burial Caves in the Kidron Valley, Jerusalem. Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority.
Avni, Gideon, Zvi Greenhut and Tal Ilan 1994 "Three New Burial Caves of the Second Temple Period in Aceldama (Kidron Valley)." In Gcva Hillel (ed.), Ancientlerusalem Revealed, 206-18. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society. Bagatti, Bellarmino
1971
The Church from the Circumcision: History and Archaeology of the Jewish Christians. Jerusalem: Franciscan Press. Bagatti, Bellarmino and J. T. Milik 1958 Gli scavi del Dominus Flevit, Vol. 1: La necropoli del periodo romano. Jerusalem: Franciscan Press. Cohen, Shaye J. D. 1989 "Crossing the Boundary and Becoming a Jew." Harvard Theological Review 82: 13-33. Feldman, Louis H. 1993 Jew and Gentile in the Ancient World: Attitudes and Interactions from Alexander to Justinian. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Figueras, Paul Decorated Jewish Ossuaries. Leiden: Brill. 1983 "Epigraphic Evidence for Proselytism in Ancient Judaism." Immanuel 1990
24/25: 194-206. Frey, Jean Baptiste, ed. 1936-52 Corpus inscriptionum iudaicarum. 2 vols. Rome: Pontificio isticuto di archcologia cristiana. Goodman, Martin 1994 Mission and Conversion: Proselytizing in the Religious History of the Roman Empire. Oxford: Clarendon. Ilan, Tal "New Ossuary Inscriptions from Jerusalem." Scripta Classica Israelica 1991-92 11: 149-59. "The Ossuary and Sarcophagus Inscriptions." In Avni and 1996 Greenhut, The Akeldama Tombs, chap. 3. Kraemer, Ross S. 1989 "On the Meaning of the Term 'Jew' in Greco-Roman Inscriptions." Harvard Theological Review 82: 35-53.
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Leon, Harry].
1960
The Jews of Ancient Rome. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society
of America. Leon, Harry J. and Carolyn A. Osiek
1995
The Jews of Ancient Rome: Updated Edition. Peabody: Hendrickson.
Levinskaya, Irina
The Book of Acts in Its First Century Setting, Vol. 5: The Book of Acts in Its Diaspora Setting. Grand Rapids/Carlisle: Eerdmans/Paterno5ter.
1996
Liddell, Henry George, Robert SCott, Henry Stuart Jones and Roderick McKenzie, eds. 1940 [184]] A Greek-English Lexicon. Ninth ed. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Lifshitz, Baruch "Inscriptions grecques de Cesare en Palestine (Caesarea 1961 Palaestinae)." Revue Biblique 68: 115-26. Liideritz, Gert
Corpus judischer Zeugnisse aus der Cyrenaika, mit einem Anhang von Joyce M. Reynolds. Wiesbaden: Reichert.
1983
Mazar, Benjamin
[1957] Beth She'arim. Report on the Excavations During 1936-1940, Vol. 1: Catacombs 1-4. Jerusalem; Israel Exploration Society and the Institute of Archaeology, Hebrew University. Moore, George Foot 1927 Judaism in the First Centuries of the Christian Era. Vol. 1. Cambridge, MA; Harvard University Press. Naveh, Joseph 1978 On Stone and Mosaic: The Aramaic and Hebrew Inscriptions from Ancient Synagogues [Hebrew}. Tel Aviv: Ha-Hevrah le-hakirat erets Yisrael ve-atikotehah. Noy, David 199.3 Jewish Inscriptions of West em Europe, Vol. 1: Italy (Excluding the City of Rome), Spain and Gaul. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 1973
1995
Jewish Inscriptions of Western Europe. Vol. 2: The City of Rome. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Porton, Gary G.
1994
The Stranger Within Your Gates: Converts and Conversion in Rabbinic Literature. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Reynolds, Joyce M. and Robert Tannenbaum
1987
Jews and God-Fearers at Aphrodisias: Greek Inscriptions with Commentary. Cambridge: Cambridge Philological Society.
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Schnrer, Emil
1986
The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ (175
B.C.-AD. 135). Vol. 3.1. Eds. Geza Vermes, Fergus Millar and Martin Goodman. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. Schwabe, Moshe and Baruch Lifshitz 1974 [1967] Beth She'arim, Vol. 2: The GreekInscriptions. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society and the Institute of Archaeology, Hebrew University. Sukenik, E. L. 1931 Judische Graber Jerusalems um Christi Geburt. Jerusalem: Archaeologischen Gesellschaft. Taylor, Miriam S. 1994 Anti-Judaism and Early Christian Identity; A Critique of the Scholarly Consensus. Leiden: Brill. Van der Horst, Pieter W. 1991 Ancient Jewish Epitaphs: An Introductory Survey of a Millennium of Jewish Funerary Epigraphy (300 BCE-700 CE). Kampen: Kok Pharos.
23
BEHIND THE NAMES: SAMARITANS, lOVDAIOI, GALILEANS SEAN FREYNE
In recent times the question "Who were the Galileans in Hellenistic and Roman times?" has taken on an importance well beyond the bounds ofJewish historiography of the period. Population patterns in other outlying regions of Roman Palestine, such as Idumea, the Negev and Samaria, are just as significant in terms of our understanding of Second Temple history as a whole. None of these regions, however, has been so extensively studied or has taken on the same importance as Galilee, for obvious reasons to do with the origins of both Judaism and Christianity as world religions. Earlier in the twentieth century the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule opted for Isaiah's "Galilee of the Gentiles" (Isa 8:23) as an accurate description of the population of the region (Bertram 1935), whereas Jewish scholars sought to establish a Jewish Galilee on the scraps of evidence from the literary sources (Klein 1923; Buchler 1968). Even today, despite all the added information available from the archaeology of key sites, one can detect the same two trends dominating the various construals of Galilee, especially when it comes to dealing with the question of the historical Jesus. Recently, Richard Horsley (1995) has argued for another possibility, namely, that the population of Galilee in the Second Temple period consisted of Israelites, stemming from the remnants of the northern tribes left after the Assyrian conquest of the eighth century BCE. The same idea had also been proposed by Albrecht Alt (1953-64: esp. 2.374-84), but with different consequences from those proposed by Horsley. Whereas Alt saw Galilee entering the e8vo~ 'tWV • Iouocdwv freely and as it were by right once the opportunity arose for Jewish self-determination in the second century BCE, Horsley, adopting a conflictual model for understanding the Hasmonean
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expansion, believes that the Judeans imposed their laws and customs on the Galilean Israelites, often meeting with opposition and resistance from the native population. Crucial to Horsley's argument is the claim that the Galileans were not Ioudaioi, a term that he consistently renders as "J udeans" rather than "Jews," thereby opting for the geographical rather than the religio-cultural referent of the designation. In this short essay we cannot deal with all the issues involved in these differing opinions. The objective rather is to clarify the meaning of the names Galilean, Samaritan and Ioudaioi in our sources, by asking what lies behind these various designations. Are these names merely geographical markers for the inhabitants of the various regions of Roman Palestine, or do they also carry religious and cultural assumptions about the inhabitants of the different regions? In that event we must also ask the further question concerning the real differences between the inhabitants of the various regions, based on the different epithets. The introduction of the Samaritans into the discussion may at first sight seem curious, since in considerations of Second Temple history they are often regarded as something of an intrusion into the discussion. Yet an examination of this group, especially in the light of some recent literary and archaeological developments, can shed new light on the questions being addressed here, especially the issue of Galilean Israelites.
1. Samaritans The bitter opposition between the Samaritans and the Ioudaioi has often been rehearsed, but the equally hostile relations between the Samaritans and the Galileans have not received the same attention. Yet the gospels, especially Luke (9:52-56) and John (4:4), as well as Josephus (War 2.232; Ant. 20.118), make it clear that Samaritans resented Galileans, especially pilgrims on their way to Jerusalem in the first century CE-almost 200 years after the destruction of their own temple on Gerizim by John Hyrcanus. This hostility toward the Galileans is all the more baffling if, as Alt and Horsley claim, they had maintained their Israelite roots. One might a priori have expected solidarity between Galilean Israelites and Samaritans, since the latter also regarded themselves as Israelites, holding fast to the Mosaic traditions and rejecting the special Davidic associations ofJudea and Jerusalem. Even the Samaritan Diaspora in Delos described themselves as "the Israelites who
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make offerings at hallowed Hargarazein, the holy" (Kraabel1984). Yet in fact no such bonding seems to have occurred in the Second Temple period. In order to understand this hostility of Samaritans toward Galileans we need a clearer picture of both groups. Recent archaeological evidence from Gerizim (Magen 1993a) suggests that the site consists of a city as well as a temple similar to that in Jerusalem, something that Josephus also acknowledges (War 1.63; Ant. 11.310). On the basis of pottery and coin evidence this foundation is to be dated to the early Seleucid period, a dating that coincides with the reign of Antiochus III, who may have granted rights to the Yahweh worshippers in Samaria similar to those he granted to the Temple community at Jerusalem in recurn for its political support (Ant. 12.138-53). This later dating of the building of the Samaritan temple has repercussions for the interpretation of Josephus's account of the events at the time of Alexander the Great (Ant. 11.306-12), and indeed of his treatment of the Samaritans generally. While it is indeed conceivable, as Josephus claims, that dissident Jerusalem priests revived the Yahweh cult at Gerizim in the early Greek period, no evidence of an earlier construction than the one now unearthed by Magen has been found (Pummer 1989: 167-69). If such a revival did in fact take place earlier at Gerizim it should not be linked to any syncretistic intentions of the founders of the cult as Josephus wants to imply. Sanballates, the local Persian governor of the time who reputedly encouraged the enterprise, was from a line of such officials with the same Persian name, but who appear as good Yahweh worshippers in the Elephantine papyri a hundred years earlier (407 BeE), where the then governor, another Sanballates, had two sons with the Yahwistic theophoric names, Delaiah and Shelemiah, and was approached for help in rebuilding the temple of Yahweh at Elephantine that had been destroyed by the Egyptian priests. Indeed the Samaritans could also appeal to Deuteronomic warrant for their choice of Gerizim as the location fortheir temple (Deut 27: 11-26; cf. 11:29-30), thereby possibly supporting the principle of only one centre of worship, but claiming Gerizim rather than Jerusalem as its proper location (cf. John 4:20). By linking the construction of the Samaritan temple with the rise of Alexander the Great, Josephus wanted to suggest that it emerged in suspicious circumstances, confirmed later by the fact that the "Sidonians at Shechem" appealed to Antiochus Epiphanes to have the Zeus cult established at their
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temple at Gerizim. This differs markedly from the account in 2 Maccabees 6:2, which states that the Zeus cult was imposed upon them by the Seleucid king (Doran 1983). The most influential historians of the period (e.g., Bickerman 1962; Hengel 1980; Purvis 1989) essentially follow Josephus's version of events at that time, linking the founding of the temple at Gerizim to the establishment of a Macedonian colony in Samaria. The native (mixed) aristocracy who were ousted by the new arrivals, it is claimed, established themselves at She chern, an old but abandoned cult site, and built the temple at Gerizim at the same time. This reconstruction, however, is problematic for several reasons. It is highly unlikely that the Greeks would have allowed the ousted Samaritan aristocracy to re-establish itself at Shechem, and indeed the archaeological evidence at this site (Tel Balatah) does not support the idea that the old cult site there was rebuilt at that time. The presence of many corpses in the caves at Wadi Daliyeh suggests rather that the Samaritan aristocracy may have suffered a very different fate at the hands of the Greeks (Cross 1966). Furthermore, why would they have wanted to build another temple at nearby Gerizim if they had been allowed to refound the ancient Israelite cult site? In addition, the alleged discovery of this Samaritan temple on one of the peaks of Gerizim, Tel el Ras (Bull 1977) , must now be abandoned in favour of a much later date in the Roman period for the archaeological remains at that location. These probably date to the reign of Antoninus Pius, on whose coins is represented a temple to Zeus with a monumental stairway {Pummer 1989; Magen 1993a}. The net import of this discussion is to emphasize how much the standard account of Samaritan religious identity of Second Temple times is in need of revision. Far from being a syncretistic sect of the early Hellenistic period, whose Cuthean origins made their religious allegiance to Yahwism suspect from the start, the Samaritans must be seen rather as devoted Yahweh worshippers, whose cultic practices in all probability did not differ significantly from those in Jerusalem. This image of the Samaritans is confirmed by the report from the Egyptian Diaspom of the second century BeE about a dispute that arose as to which of the temples-J erusalem or Gerizim-was the au thentic Mosaic shrine to which the offerings should be sent (Ant. 12.10; 13.74). The fact that the Jerusalemites won out in the opinion of the Ptolemaic king, and the defenders of Gerizim were executed, suits Josephus's anti-Samaritan biases perfectly
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(Coggins 1987). But in this he was merely following a much earlier apologetic tradition oflubilees and the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, dating from the Hasmonean period (Pummer 1979; 1982; Mendels 1987), which sought to legitimate the harsh treatment of the Samaritans by John Hyrcanus, in contrast to the reception of the Idumeans, by suggesting a heathen background and their non-practice of circumcision. From the Samaritan side these claims were countered in writings like those ofTheodotus (Mendels 1987: 109.19), and the later evidence of Samaritan synagogues and mikwaot as well as the emergence of the Samaritan Pentateuch merely confirm the trajectory of loyal Yahweh worshippers, despite their hostility toward Jerusalem (Magen 1993b). Such a revised understanding of the Samaritans and their religious allegiances makes the animosity toward the Galileans even more paradoxical, especially if in fact these latter were of Israelite stock. Social circumstances as well as ancient religious and political loyalties might have been expected to make the Galilean and Samaritan peasantry at one in their religious allegiances. Yet it was this very fact of worship in Jerusalem that, at least according to our sources, was the cause of the hostility between them. One hypothesis might be that in the eyes of the Samaritans the Galileans were and had been disloyal in not supporting them, rather than Jerusalem, since cult centres were important economic as well as religious institutions in antiquity. But these suggestions merely sharpen the focus of our initial question: Who were the Galileans, and why did they opt for Jerusalem over Gerizim? In order to answer that question adequately, we must briefly survey the contemporary discussion about the range of meaning of IOuMios, especially in the light of the proposal that it should be rendered as Judean rather than Jew, as Horsley has claimed.
2. Ioudaioi Several important studies have recently been devoted to the use of the term
Ioudaios as it occurs in our sources, both literary and epigraphic. In a number of articles Shaye Cohen has pointed to the changed meaning of the epithet, as Jewish self-definition became more explicit in the Maccabean period, against the backdrop of Hellenistic political philosophy and a growing Jewish Diaspora (Cohen 1990; 1994; 1996). In his view 2 Maccabees represents a watershed in the use of the term as a religio-cultural indicator as against its earlier ethnogeographic referent (cf. 2 Macc 6: 1-11; 9: 16-19). The former meaning is best
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rendered by "Jew," and the latter by "Judean," the one referring to the adherents of a particular set of laws and customs (described by the author as
Ioudaismos 2:21; 8:1; 14:38) and the other designating the inhabitants of a particular territory, namely Judea. In the wake of these changes, the Jews became a clearly defined religio-social group, different from all other peoples, irrespective of whether or not they lived in or had originated from Judea. Later inscriptional evidence confirms the continued importance of this broader use of the term over the narrower geographical meaning (Williams 1997). The fact that Ioudaios can be used equally for converts to the Jewish way of life and for those born as Jews merely confirms this broader range of meaning of the term. Josephus acknowledges this double connotation of the name when he writes: "The name Ioudaioi, which they have been called from the time that they have come up from Babylon, is derived from the tribe ofJudah; as this tribe was the first to come to these parts, both the people themselves and the country have taken their name from it" (Ant. 11.173). Thus, Ioudaios/oi derives from both the territory of the ancient tribe of Judah and the group of returnees from Babylon, thereby indicating a geographical as well as a religiOUS significance. Another important aspect of the discussion is the issue of whether or not the term was used by Jews themselves or by outsiders. Recently a very thorough investigation has been made of the official nomenclature of the Hasmonean, Herodian and Roman periods, as employed both by outsiders and by the Jewish leaders themselves on official documents and coins (Goodblatt 1998). Once again, the MaccabeanlHasmonean period seems to mark a definitive moment in the evolution of the term's usage. Despite a preference for the name Israel when describing themselves internally, the Hasmoneans opted for the gentilic plural Ioudaioi both on coins and in official documents. This usage Goodblatt regards as "thoroughly hellenistic," when they might have opted for either the more ancient name Israel or the administrative title of the Persian province JudahIY ehud. In this regard they contrasted with their near neighbours the Phoenicians and Nabateans, both of whom used ethnic designations "in a native style." Equally, Jewish nationalists opted for Israel as their official self-designation in the two revolts against Rome. The use of the gentilic plural on official documents and coins seems to corroborate Cohen's findings that increasingly, from the Maccabean period, there was a definite preference for being known by national
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characteristics rather than by place of residence, just as one spoke, for instance, about the Athenians rather than Athens or the Egyptians rather than Egypt. Ioudaioi were those who lived according to a set of ancestral laws and customs rather than inhabitants of the province of Judea. This religiocultural meaning is confirmed by the New Testament writings-for example, Mark 7:2-8 and Acts 2: 11. Several unconvincing attempts have been made to soften the rather negative treatment of the Ioudaioi in the Fourth Gospel by suggesting it be translated as Judeans rather than Jews. In this regard, however, John Ashton's remarks are apposite to the usage that is being here discussed when he notes that we commonly speak of the Poles in Britain (or indeed the Irish in North America) without implying that the people so designated had ever lived in Poland or Ireland, but simply that they continue to live a certain lifestyle associated with ancestral homelands and continue to have a special relationship with "the folks back home." Thus, in the case of the Jews (and the Irish and Poles also) the religio-cultural meaning builds on the geographical one but takes on the extended meaning in the process (Ashton 1985). As already noted, Josephus is well aware of this double meaning, yet since he is writing in the nineties, after the Judean war, one can imagine that it was the religio-cultural meaning of the common name that was of primary importance to him and to his readership. As is well known, he repeatedly inserted into his narrative of earlier events concerns of his own day. With regard to the term Ioudaios he has the Seleucid pretender, Demetrius, declare that "it shall be the concern of the High Priest that not a single loudaios shall have a temple to worship other than that at Jerusalem," in a context in which he transforms the promise in the earlier work of the transfer of three border districts of Samaria to Judea (1 Mace 10:29-30) into a promise of the three toparchies of Samaria, Galilee and Perea (Ant. 13.49-54}-that is, the whole of the traditional Jewish territory as it was reconstituted in Herodian times, and as Josephus himself describes it prior to the great revolt (War 3.35-58). Here, as elsewhere, loudaio5 is defined as a worshipper at the Jerusalem Temple, a primary obligation for anyone wishing "to live according to the ancestral laws" (Schwartz 1989). It would seem highly unlikely, therefore, that when it comes to describing the decrees of Caesar in favour of the loudaioi, on which Horsley bases much of his case for the Judeans' imposition on the Galileans, Josephus,
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or for that matter Caesar, had in mind the restricted sense "Judeans" as the beneficiaries of the concessions in question. The fact that the decrees in question were to be published at, among other places, T yre, Sidon and Ptolemais (Ant. 14.190-98) surely means that the wider meaning was intended, covering all who lived according to the ancestral laws, irrespective of whether they lived in Palestine or beyond. Did this include Galileans also?
3. Galileans If the idea that Galileans of the Second Temple are best understood as Israelites seems highly improbable in the light of Galilean/Samaritan relations, what about the Galileans as Ioudaioi? The fact that Galilean/Samaritan animosity was the result of the former worshipping at Jerusalem rather than Gerizim would a priori suggest that they were seen as loudaioi in the extended religio-cultural sense we have been discussing. Josephus is careful never to call the Samaritans Ioudaioi, even though in every other respect except worship at Jerusalem they would qualify as "living according to ancestral customs," something Josephus himself grudgingly admits in an unguarded moment (Ant. 11.344). The rejection ofJerusalem's unique claims had a long history in the Second Temple period, probably dating from the very return from exile, when the offer of help in the rebuilding was rejected by the returnees. The building of their own temple with its counterclaims to the Temple in Jerusalem only came about considerably later, irrespective of whether we date it to the early Greek period or to the reign of Antiochus III, as previously discussed. The Galileans, however, presented no such threat to Jerusalem, and in fact chose to worship there rather than at Gerizim. As such they are repeatedly designated ~s loudaioi both individually and collectively,
as are the Idumeans (War 2.232;
6.148; Ant. 18.38; 20.43; Life 221, 346).
This does not mean that regional differences cannot also be acknowledged. The fact that on two occasions Josephus speaks of the Galilean e8voc; (War 2.510; 4.105) should not be used to separate them totally from the judeans, given the fact that e8vot; has a regional rather than a religio-cultural connotation in both contexts. Nor would this designation alone differentiate them from Judeans, given the extended meaning of that epithet by early Roman times, and the fact that Josephus repeatedly does not hesitate to designate Galileans as Ioudaioi, especially in conjunction with the Jerusalem
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Temple (War 2.232: Galilean pilgrims on their way to Jerusalem are described as Ioudaioi; Ant. 17.254-58: Galileans are named among the Ioudaioi who are outraged by the Roman troops' desecration of the Temple on the occasion of one of the festivals), while assiduously avoiding the designation for the Samaritans. In Ufe in particular, but also in the corresponding section of War, Josephus repeatedly uses the term raA tAatOl with a very distinctive meaning, referring to those inhabitants of the region, mainly from the villages, who are loyal to himself, as distinct from the residents of the major cities-Sepphoris, Tiberias, Gabara and Gischala (Freyne 1980; Jossa 1983; 1994). The context and gente of this apologetic work demand that he speak of his supporters as Galileans, since he is responding
to
an attack from Justus of Tiberias, a native of the
province, who clearly had accused him of starting the revolution against Rome in the province because of his personal ambition. The burden of his selfdefence is that he won the support of the majority of the population to his own moderate position, unlike some of the native aspirants such as John and Justus himself. Even though in this work the epithet Ioudaios is reserved for those inhabitants of Tarichaeae who insisted on circumcision for the foreign noblemen who had taken refuge among them (Ufe 118), it is clear that the Galileans are for Josephus Jews who support him as a Jerusalem priest and who refuse to accept others who have been sent to oust him from his position of leadership. Indeed the very make-up of that delegation, consisting of priests and Pharisees, sent officially from Jerusalem in order to win over the Galileans, merely emphasizes how Jerusalem-oriented the natives were and could be presumed to be (Life 195-98). The people of Sepphoris, on the other hand, could be chided for their failure to come to the aid of the Temple, "which is common to us all," thus underlining the assumptions of the work as a whole, namely, that the Galileans were Ioudaioi, despite the regional rivalries that one can discern both in Josephus's dealing with them and in their attitude toward the delegation sent from the centre.
4. Conclusion The results of this brief inquiry may be summarized as follows. The fact that the Samaritans are to be seen as loyal Yahweh worshippers, yet show animosity to the Galilean pilgrims, casts a serious doubt on the characterization of these
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TEXT AND ARTIFACf
latter as Israelites. From the Hasmonean period the term Ioudaios was increasingly used in a religio-cultural sense to refer
to
all who worshipped at
Jerusalem, irrespective of their place of origin. This extended use of the term and the assumptions that it carried are applicable to the Galileans also, thereby providing the explanation for the Samaritan/Galilean hostilities, similar to those that obtained between the Samaritans and the Judeans. The precise circumstances in which the dominant strand of the population of Galilee became Jewish call for an ongoing critical dialogue between archaeological discoveries and a critical reading of our texts, especially Josephus.
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399
References Alt, Albrecht 1953-64
Kleine Sehriften zur Geschichte des Volkes Israels. 3 vols. Munchen: Beck.
Ashton, John
1985
"The Identity and Function of the IOUDAIOI in the Fourth Gospel." Novum Testamentum 27: 40-75.
Bertram, Georg
1935
"Der He!lenismus in der Urheimat des Evangeliums." Arehiv fur Religionswissensehaft 32: 265-81. Bickerman, Elias J. 1962 From Ezra to the Last of the Maccabees. New York: Schocken. Buchler, Adolf 1968 [1906] Der Galiliiisehe 'Am ha-'Aretz des zweiten Jahrhunderts. Hildesheim: Olms. Bull, Robert ]. 1977 "An Archaeological Footnote to 'Our Fathers Worshipped on This Mountain', Jn iv, 20." New Testament Studies 23: 460-62. Coggins, Richard 1987 "The Samaritans in Josephus." In Louis H. Feldman and Gohei Hata (eds.), Josephus, Judaism and Christianity, 257-73. Detroit: Wayne State University Press. Cohen, Shaye J. D. 1990
"Religion, Ethnicity and 'Hellenism' in the Emergence of Jewish
Identity in Maccabean Palestine." In Per Bilde, Troels EngbergPedersen, Lise Hannestad and Jan Zahle (eds.), Religion and Religious Practice in the Seleueid Kingdom, 204-23. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. 1994 .. , 'IOTAAlO~'l'O rENO~' and Related Expressions in Josephus." In Fausto Parente and Joseph Sievers (eds.), Josephus and the History of the Graeeo-Roman Period: Essays in Memory of Morton Smith, 22-38. Leiden: Brill. 1996 "Ioudaios: 'Judean' and 'Jew' in Susanna, First Maccabees, and Second Maccabees." In Hubert Cancik, Hermann Lichtenberger and Peter Schafer (eds.), Geschichte-Tradition-Reflexion: Festschrift far Martin Hengel zum 70. Geburtstag, 1.211-19.3 vols. Tubingen: Mohr. Cross, Frank Moore 1966 "Aspects of Samaritan and Jewish History in the Late Persian and Hellenistic Times." Harvard Theological Review 59: 201-11.
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Doran, Robert 1983 "2 Maccabees 6:2 and the Samaritan Question." Harvard Theological Review 76: 481-85. Freyne, Sean 1980 "The Galileans in the Light of] osephus' Vita. " New Testament Studies 26: 397-413. Goodblatt, David M. 1998 "From Judeans to Israel: The Names of JeWish States in Antiquity." Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic and Roman Periods 29: 1-36. Hengel, Martin [1976J Jews, Greeks, and Barbarians: Aspects uf the Hellenization of 1980 Judaism in the Pre-Christian Period. Trans. John Bowden. London: SCM. Horsley, Richard A. 1995 Galilee: History, Politics, People. Valley Forge: Trinity Press International. Jossa, Giorgio "Chi sono I Galilei nella Vita di Flavio Giuseppe." Rivista Biblica 31: 1983 329-39. 1994 "Josephus' Action in Galilee During the Jewish War." In Parente and Sievers, Josephus and the History of the Greco-Roman Period, 265-78. Klein, Samuel Neue Beitrage zur Geschichte und Geographie Galili:ia.s. Vienna: 1923 Menorah. Kraabel, A. Thomas 1984 "New Evidence of the Samaritan Diaspora Has Been Found on Delos." Biblical Archaeologist 47: 44-46. Magen, Yitshak "Mount Gerizim and the Samaritans." In F. Manns and E. Alliata 1993a (eds.), Early Christianity in Context: Monuments and Documents, 91147. Jerusalem: Franciscan Press. "The Ritual Baths at Qedumim and the Samaritan Observance 1993b of Purity." In Manns and Alliata, Early Christianity in Context, 167-
92. Mendels, Doron
1987
The Land of Israel as a Political Concept in Hasmonean Uterature: Recourse to History in Second Century B.C. Claims to the Holy Land. Tubingen: Mohr.
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Pummer, Reinhard 1979 "The Book of}ubilees and the Samaritans." Eglise et TMologie 10: 147-78. "Genesis 34 in Jewish Writings of the Hellenistic and 1982 Roman Periods." Harvard Theological Review 75: 177-88. 1989 "Samaritan Material Remains and Archaeology." In Alan C. Crown (ed.) , The Samaritans, 135-77. Tiibingen: Mohr. Purvis, James D. 1989 "The Samaritans." In W. D. Davies and Louis Finkelstein (eds.), The Cambridge History of Judaism, Vol. 2: The Hellenistic Age, 591-693. London: Cambridge University Press. Schwartz, Seth "The 'Judaism' of Samaria and Galilee in Josephus' Version of the 1989 Letter of Demetrius I to Jonathan (Antiquities 13,48-57)." Harvard
Theological Review 82; 377-91. Williams, M. H. 1997 "The Meaning and Function of Ioudaios in Graeeo-Roman Inscriptions." Zeitschrift fur Papyrologie und Epigraphik 116: 249-62.
24
FRIENDSHIP AND SECOND TEMPLE JEWISH SECTARIANlSM WAYNE O. MCCREADY
Rodney Stark, in his book The Rise of Christianity: A Sociologist Reconsiders History (1996: 18-19), makes a telling observation about those who join modern new religious movements. When asked why they joined, initiates frequently cited friendships and personal associations made with members of the movement. When asked about reasons for conversion years later, however, responses had more to do with ideological and theological issues. Stark's point is that conversion to contemporary new religious movements (in contrast to ongoing membership) has as much, perhaps more,
to
do with social ties
between people as with ideology. This essay will consider two proposals from Stark's analysis of the origins of Christianity and apply them to a particular context in Second Temple Judaism: conversion to a religious group is realized when an initiate has greater allegiance to members than to non-members; and successful conversion movements actively cultivate social networks that promote intimate personal attachments such as friendship between standing members and would-be initiates. With reference to his point about the primacy of friendship for joining a religious movement, Stark cites records kept by a Mormon president: When [Mormon] missionaries make cold calls, knock on the doors of strangers, this eventually leads to a conversion once out of a thousand calls. However, when missionaries make their first contact with a person in the home of a Mormon friend or relative of that person, this results in conversion 50 percent of the time (Stark and Bainbridge, 1985). A variation on the network proposition about conversion is that successful founders of new faiths typically turn first to those with whom they already have strong attachments. That is, they recruit their first followers from among their family and close friends. (1996: 18)
FRIENDSHIP AND SECTARIANISM
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Stark's proposal about the relationship between friendship and conversion will be qualified below in light of research done by Lome Dawson (1996). In addition, David Konstan's thesis (1997: 6) that friendship at the turn of the common era should be thought of as something rather similar to our modern understanding of it will be used as a first principle for defining friendship in this essay. Friendship will be understood as an achieved relationship distinct from ascribed and obligatory roles demanded by family, kin and class. It was based on mutual bonds involving intimacy, loyalty and affection. Initially, I was less than sympathetic to Konstan's thesis because I am not convinced humans have always held common views with reference
to
self-understanding (see Malina and Neyrey 1991; Malina 1993; 1996: 35-96; Brown 1987, for comments on first-century views of personhood and the self). Also, the assertion (indeed the scholarly consensus) that humans at the turn of the common era were profoundly defined by the patron-client dynamic is rather overwhelming-and friendship was largely, if not exclusively, part and parcel of the Mediterranean patronage culture (see Boissevain 197 4; Eisenstadt and Roniger 1984; Osiek and Balch 1997; Wallacc-Hadrill 1989). Close reading ofKonstan's research, however, suggests that, based on his philological studies and social analysis, friendship as a mutual and affective bond should be given a much higher profile in assessing religious parties and sects in Second Temple Judaism-especially on matters of entrance and maintenance. Analysis by the Society of Biblical Literature's Hellenistic Moral Philosophy and Early Christianity Group demonstrates the positive consequences of viewing friendship as an important principle for understanding religion in antiquity (Fitzgerald 1996; 1997). The primary purpose of this essay is to assess the socio-historical context of early Judaism and the origins of Christianity. Although an attempt will be made to arrive at an assessment of conversion among Jewish sectarians based on the Qumran Community' Rule that suggests that friendship can be productive for dealing with religious definition among parties and sectarians in Second Temple Judaism, the aim is not to be drawn into a discussion of the ideology of friendship, but to concentrate on friendship as the social context for the recruitment and retention of converts.
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1. Sociological Analysis: Directives for Considering Parties and Sects 1.1 Proposals /rom Analysis of Modern New Religious Movements The publisher's praise for Stark's book (HarperCollins edition), citing Publishers
Weekly, provides the following endorsement: "Stark uses contemporary socialscientific data about why people join new religious movements and how religions recruit members to investigate the formative history of Christianity." My concern in this essay is not with Stark's views of epidemics and conversion (1992), nor with the question about the mission to the Jews or mathematical projections about growth patterns of early Christianity based on comparative analysis of modern Mormonism-even though he makes an important observation that when one looks at the emerging Christian majority based on projections of a constant growth rate of 40 percent each decade (starting with some 1,000 members in the mid,first century CE, increasing to approximately 200,000 by 200 eE, and to more than six million by 300 CE), the role of Constantine in the expansion of Christianity seems more like someone responding to "an exponential wave in progress not its cause" (Stark 1996: 10). It is what Publishers Weekly comments on that I wish to use as a directive-that is, social science methodologies dealing with why people join religious movements and how such movements recruit new members. Stark draws on his seminal work with John Lofland (Lofland and Stark 1965) on the Unification Church ("the Moonies") as well as his subsequent study of Mormonism to provide a methodological basis for estimations about the growth of early Christianity (Stark 1984; 1987; 1994). The fieldwork done by Lofland and Stark outlined a seven-step model for understanding why people join a modern new religious movement. The summary of their model here follows the analysis provided by Dawson, who makes the point that their work might better be understood as an analysis of the conditions of conversion rather than as providing the essential elements of a model (1996: 145,52). Their conditions for conversion include the following: (I) a person converting to a new religious movement experienced a personal dilemma needing resolution prior to conversion; (2) he or she sought a religious problem,solving resolution to the dilemma; (3) the orientation toward a religious problemsolving perspective resulted in the would-be convert viewing him- or herself as religious; (4) the would-be convert eventually viewed the encounter with the
FRIENDSHIP AND SECTARIANISM
405
new religious movement as a circumstance that was life-changing; (5) the convert formed an affective bond, a friendship, with members of the new religious movement; {6} the convert progressively reduced attachments outside the new religious movement; and (7) the convert experienced progressively more intense interaction with members of the new religious movement. The conditions for conversion based on this schema place doctrinal appeal in a secondary role to the primacy of personal attachments between members of a new religious movement and the would-be convert. Conversion happened through pre-existing social networks and interpersonal bonds found in a variety of settings, including the workplace, educational institutions, and gatherings of groups of friends and family members. A common summary is: "[F] riends recruit friends, family members each other, and neighbours convert neighbours" (Dawson 1996: 147). The research done by Lofland and Stark provided a healthy alternative to deprivation theories concerning religious conversion, where the ideology of a new religious movement was thought to be the essential explanation for new membership because it addressed the needs and deprivation of the would-be convert (Glock 1964). The fieldwork of Lofland and Stark suggested an alternative explanation, or at the very least an alternative understanding of deprivation theory, Le., that people conform when they have more to lose by being labelled deviant. Thus conformity lies in attachments and interpersonal bonds. Successful conversionist movements promote affirming social networks and, perhaps more importantly, conversionist movements grow when direct and interpersonal attachments are encouraged and cultivated between standing members and potential converts. While specific details may vary, social science analysis suggests that there is a significant interrelationship between social networks that promote personal attachments and religiOUS conversion. With typical clarity Stark summarizes: conversion has less to do with ideology; it is about aligning religious behaviour with that of friends and family. People do not seek a faith as much as they encounter one through people who already have it, and new religions grow because they are proactive in already existing social networks such as families and circles of friends (1996: 16-17, 56). While one might argue for a middle ground on the importance of ideology and friendship for conversion, Stark's view serves as a helpful corrective to those placing undue emphasis on ideology.
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Dawson identifies further pertinent information on conversion in light of his research on conversion in contemporary new religious movements (1996: 147 -52). A selected list here includes: (1) affective bonding between long-term members of a religion and new recruits results in deeper involvement of the convertSj (2) intensive interaction between new members and standing members is fundamental not only for the initial stages of conversion but also for long-term maintenance as members of the movement; and (3) it is important for would-be converts to be looking for religiolls resolution to the problems in their life. Personal rewards are also important factors for those joining a new religious movement-things such as affection, heightened self-esteem, esoteric and exoteric knowledge, a sense of control over one's life, as well as material and social well-being, enhanced career opportunities and prestige (Dawson 1996: 150; Stark and Bainbridge 1985: 35; Wallis 1984). On this latter point about personal rewards, Saul Levine (1984) proposes that conversion to a new religious movement can result in a safe place being established for social and psychological experimentation that can be important to converts if they are in a crisis that cannot be resolved in family settings or in other familiar social contexts. It follows that in such a crisis the convert would develop greater allegiance to members than to non-members if members aid in establishing and/or affirming this safe place through personal attachments such as friendship.
1.2 Friendship and Social Network Theory for Religious Groups in Antiquity
Social Networks in the Early Christian Environment: Issues and Methods for Social History (White 19923) examines religious groups and assemblies in Second Temple Judaism and early Christianity in terms of network theory. Network theory in this context is a method for analyzing the social relationships of a religious group at a micro-level (White 1992c: 23; Bates 1956; Boissevain and Mitchell 1973j Bott 1975j Mitchell 1969j Radcliffe-Brown 1952). In addition to
affirming the principle that converts in antiquity-like the modern cases
cited by Stark and Dawson-were not attracted to religious groups by ideological appeal only, primary sources demonstrate the importance of social ties between individuals connected by patronage bonds, especially in the late Republic (ca. 500-30 BeE) when fractured social and government institutions increased the importance of patronage for survival. People formed groups when
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governments did not provide adequate access to goods and services, and the power of the group was brokered through patronage relationships (White 1992b: 4-5, 18-19). This insight is important for our analysis because it provides a plausible social explanation for why allegiance to group members might be greater than to non-members, though we should note that reservations have been expressed about using deprivation theory as the only basis for analyzing religious conversion. The focus of this essay is on the place of personal attachments among those joining a new religious movement-how in the face of inadequate government assistance for personal needs, these attachments would be concentrated on those who provided for these needs. The consensus is that the patronage system was foundational and formative for the economic, political and social systems at the turn of the common era. Michael White provides examples of an Isis cult in Pompeii, and a synagogue in Acmonia in Phrygia, where interlocking acts of patronage among patron, client and religious groups not only resulted in the standard affirmations by patron and client, but also enhanced the social acceptability of the religious groups (1992b: 18-19). With reference to the topic under discussion it is important to note that friendship was one of two essential ties that bound the patronage system together. White states: Perhaps the most readily discernible network structures from the Roman world are the familial organization of the extended household and the operation of patronage. Indeed, patronage may be seen both as a kind of "friendship" structure, as Aristotle conceived it, or as a kind of quasi-kinship structure. (1992c: 34)
I follow the directive of White's analysis and sugge8t that at the turn of the common era the interplay of patronage systems, friendship and the decision to join distinctive societal groups-including conversion
to
new religious
movements-was a normal consequence of existing social network structures. Roman patronage is often thought to have been influenced by Greek systems of civic benefaction. Since, however, patronage and benefaction could imply rather mercenary relationships, they were frequently represented in terms and ideas associated with friendship. Thus when encountering friendship in ancient literature we must be careful to determine its context, application and raison d'etre (Atkins 1963; Brunt 1965; Easterling 1989; Fraisse 1974; Hutter 1978; Rist 1980; Saller 1982; 1989). Again, the consensus is that, in the
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TEXT AND ARTIFACf
friendships expressed in patronage settings, reciprocity played a central role, and that informal networks of relationships were what counted for personal and political advancement. Friendship had the capacity to be both a bond and a barrier, to extend generosity toward, and to exclude, others. Usually it was kept within common social boundaries, with friendship among equals being the norm and friendship between those of different social statuses the exception. E. R. Wolf examined friendship in patron-client societies and determined that there were two types offriendship (1966: 1-22). First, there was expressive or emotional friendship, in which each party satisfied an emotional need of the other. Second, there was instrumental friendship, entered into for the purpose ofgaining access to new or desired resources (natural or social); in instrumental friendships, each individual acted as a potential connecting link to other people outside the social unit. In contrast to emotional friendship, which was confined to closed social circles, instrumental friendship reached beyond the boundaries of existing social settings and sought to establish "beachheads" in new settings (1966: 12). Instrumental friendship, with its orientation toward making connecting links with people outside a common social circle, was likely the type of friendship that most clearly affected religious conversion in patron-client settings at the turn of the common era. White's summation on patronage and network analysis is helpful (see also Gellner 1977; Eisenstadt and Roniger 1984: 42-77). He isolates two points: "a. Patronage relationships involved real people, and hence the evidence invites social description, and b. patronage was modelled on reciprocity and obligation, and thus it constituted a mechanism for structuring social exchange" (1992c: 36). The thesis proposed here is that a societal "mechanism" for conversion to religious movements in both achieved and ascribed relationships located within patronage contexts at the turn of the common era was group allegiance promoted through personal attachments with members of the religious movement. What distinguished conversion from other social mechanisms was the combination of religious problem-solving with the affective social bonds that were offered by existing members of the religious movement. The points to emphasize are the primacy of affective bonds in the resolution of religious problems, and the social networks that encouraged affective bonding between initiates and standing members of religious groups.
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2. Friendship in the Classical World 2.1 Friendship as a Bond Involving Intimacy. Loyalty and Affection
Konstan's recent monograph, Friendship in the Classical World (1997), is one of his many recent challenges to scholarly consensus on friendship in antiquity (1995; 1996a; 1996b). His 1996 article on Greek friendship, for instance, concludes with the following observation: Contrary to a view that has been widely expressed in scholarly literature then, it is false to say that Greek usage differed from English, or from most languages, in embracing kinship and friendship under a single concept predicated on objective mutual responsibilities [that is, reciprocity J. Greeks themselves were, like us, quite clear about the difference between friends, relatives and countrymen. (1996c: 92)
While acknowledging the philological challenges of determining the difference between friends, kin and fellow citizens, Konstan makes a spirited case that ancients in the classical world experienced relationships based on intimacy, loyalty and affection. He acknowledges that friendship frequently had to do with social matters. Konstan does not deny the reciprocal dimension of interpersonal relationships, but insists that friendship was not limited to the consequences of reciprocity. On the basis of a wide range of literature and terminology (<1>0..0<;, e.aipo<;, ennijoEw<;, amicus, sodalis, familiaris) extending from the Greek Archaic period through Classical Greece, the Hellenistic era, and Roman and late-Roman periods, he presents a convincing case for a recurring image of friendship as a relationship based on mutual affection and commitment (1997: 19). He is right to point out that, as in the modern context, friendship in antiquity was multi-dimensional. Friendship that had practical advantages need not have been based solely on self-interest and obligation; it could involve altruism. Konstan alerts us, however, to an important distinction between ancient and modern understandings of friendship. It has to do with the modern view that friendship involves self-disclosure (1997: 17). For the ancient, frankness and candour were traits to be cultivated among friends but they were not about self-disclosure. Moderns, especially in Western cultures, view friendship as involving the expression of a unique self, disclosing to friends intimate matters
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
in a trusting relationship. Disclosure is understood to advance individual development and strengthen friendships. Ancients, Konstan argues, cultivated personal traits that were embedded in the collective group without concern for developing a distinctive self. People shared a mutual identity in their group setting (especially with reference to family, kin and class; Suttles 1970: 95-135). Bruce Malina summarizes the contrast: First-century Mediterraneans were simply unaware of the personal, individualistic, self-concerned focus typical of contemporary American experience. Given [ancient] Mediterranean social experience, such self-concerned individualism would appear deviant and detrimental to other group members. For people of that time and place, the basic. most elementary unit of social analysis was not the individual person considered alone and apart from others as a unique being, but the dyadic person, a person always in relation with and connected to at least one other social unit, usually a group. (1996: 38)
A challenge in dealing with conversion and group allegiances based on friendship at the turn of the common era is to keep the collectivist paradigm central to the analysis of personal attachments. Conversion meant that one changed loyalties from one distinctive whole (with its unique setof allegiances) to a new distinctive whole (Barth 1969; Keesing 1975). The dynamic of conversion in this collectivist environment was such that, even when personal attachments had priority over ideology, initiates made decisions involving social units rather than expressing solely their individual interests. The collectivist-self was essentially a group-self; people were defined by their social unit (Drown 1987; Malina and Neyrey 1991; Rajak 1985). A brief-and perforce simple-summary of classical literature following Konstan's survey and analysis will help set the stage for understanding friendship, and the momentum of the concept as it may have impacted on religious parties and sects in Second Temple Judaism.
2.2 The Archaic Era (from Homer to the Sixth Century BCE) The Iliad and the Odyssey have no term that easily corresponds to the English word for friend. The noun
FRIENDS! lIP AND SECT ARIANISM
411
were special bonds between people who were not relatives, that is, neighbours and comrades in general-and lyric drinking songs suggest that friendship based on the symposium approximates the modern sense of friend. The special bond between Achilles and Patroclus in the Iliad is the best example of an affective relationship based on intensity of feeling. However,
"dear comrade," may come closest to modern ideas of friendship, as it was an elective relationship based on mutual affection (Konstan 1997: 33). Thus, friendship as a social category appears to have been loosely defined in the Archaic era.
2.3 The Classical or Hellenic Period From the democratic reforms in Athens to the death of Alexander, the influence of democratic city-states, and especially the cultural leadership of Athens in the fifth and fourth centuries BeE, promoted an understanding of
when it was distinguished by the definite article-covered a range of affections including those of parents who showed altruistic love toward their children. It came to be understood as the middle ground between kinship and citizenship. It was voluntary or achieved, and carried with it the sense of adopting or acquiring (TCOLEia8aL, "make [friends1 for oneself"). And it included the idea of helpfulness and mutual assistance. Konstan alerts us to the impact of political and social conflicts in democratic city-states where friendships in voluntary associations contrasted with ascribed status based on kinship and citizenship (1997: 60-67). With the end of nobility, friendships inspired a new class-consciousness; people understood their relationships with equals as a social virtue. That is, a good friend was a good citizen. Aristotle
(Nicomachean Ethics and Eudemian Ethics) held that there were three sources offriendship: utility, pleasure and respect. He promoted the ideal of generosity among friends, relationships between equals, and friendship as a sphere of freedom from domination and subordination. Thus, friendship served as a paradigm for relations in a democracy.
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2.4 The Hellenistic Period The defeat of Athenian democracy by Philip of Macedon eventually had an impact on discourse concerning friendship. Ideals of popular democracy gave way to relations between people of unequal status. Instead of friendship being thought of as a bond between people of equal status, writers in the Hellenistic period focussed on those in positions of power and others bound to them in patron.client relationships. An ideology of equality gave way to matters of rank and authority. This recalls the point made earlier that, when a social system does not provide adequate access to goods and services, the brokerage factor of friendships in patronage systems intensifies. Friends were viewed as those constituting a network of mutual assistance, as democratic ideology in the Hellenistic period gave way to the emerging patron-client dynamic. The concern in this environment was to distinguish genuine friends from those motivated by self-interest and advancement for their own benefit. In Syria and Egypt, privy councils emerged in which counsellors to kings were referred to as "Friends" ($i10\; Walbank 1984). A social virtue also emerged that placed value on forthrightness and honesty toward superiors, with the idea that candour was necessary for the well-being of society. Frankness,
1tttPP'l1oiex, was the sign of good will among $i101. F. W. Walbank summarizes the working context of these Friends of the kings: Friends are to be found in all Hellenistic courtS, where they form a council of state in daily session, advising the king on matters of policy-though it remains his prerogative to take the decision. During the fourth and third centuries the king'$ Friends are distinguished by social and geographical mobility and personal initiative; but in the second century there was a gradual hardening into a bureaucracy. (1984: 69·70) Eventually, 1tttPP'l1oitt (trankness of speech) shifted from a political right to a moral virtue. In Hellenistic philosophical schools, especially among Epicureans and to a lesser extent among StoiCS, friendship served as a feature of pedagogy in which frank criticism was part of the instructional discourse between teacher and student. For example, Philodemus's handbook, On Frank
Criticism, gave considerable direction on frank speech as part of the teaching enterprise (Glad 1996). It required awareness by the teacher of the student's nature to strike a balance between not being too indulgent or too harsh.
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Teaching in this nurturing environment was equated with a physician healing a patient in a therapeutic manner. Epicureans cultivated ties of friendship within their communities which involved self-correction, correction administered by others, members reporting errors to their teachers and the wise correcting each other. Those who wrote about friendship in the Hellenistic period divided it into two categories: friendship of likeness was friendship of the good and morally upright, and friendship of unlikeness was friendship of the flatterer, the friend of the many and the base.
2.5 The Roman Period Unlike Greek, Latin has a word for friendship, amicitia, with a breadth of meaning that includes relations other than those based on kinship, ethnicity and day-to-day associations. Cicero understood friendship as an achieved bond in which a person willed good things for another and received the same in return. With reference to friendship and patronage, Konstan argues that friendship in the Roman era was compatible with patronage, but was not reducible to it. He states: There is no prima-facie reason to doubt that Roman writers who speak of friendship intend a relationship of mutual fondness and commitment, whatever the rank of the partners. To put it differently, not every connection between patrons and proteges is described as amici!ia; when it is, it may be supposed that the pair also are, or wish to be thought of as, friends. (1997: 137) In the later Roman period, extending into both Christian and pagan literature to the fourth century eE, the triad of friendship, frankness and flattery assumed a new significance. The shift was from candid criticism to honest disclosure of one's weakness.
2.6 Summary Observations on Friendship in the Classical World This brief overview of friendship indicates that there was a progressive development of <J>iAOC; as a social concept. In the Classical period it gained the sense of adopting or acquiring an affective bond in settings that were distinct from kinship and citizenship. Konstan's philological analysis affirms that this social concept included ideas of helpfulness and mutual assistance. He refers to it as "a disposition" to come to the assistance of others (1997: 56). Appropriate
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response to those in crisis was the mark of a true friendship that extended beyond sentiment and good intentions; it was validated through actions and deeds. What one did for a friend was the primary evidence of an affective bond. Further, this emerging ideal inspired a new class, consciousness in which friendship became a social virtue. While the Hellenistic period saw a shift to the patron-client dynamic, with friendship involving networks based on mutual assistance, friendship was still understood to be a cultivated moral virtue. If we follow Konstan's thesis, while acknowledging the importance of patronage in the Hellenistic and Roman periods, there seem to be grounds for looking at how friendship-as distinct from the concept of reciprocal obligation-was part of the social context of getting into and remaining in a religious party or sect in Second Temple Judaism. It was the result of developments emerging in the Greek world, where friendship promoted an awareness of helpfulness and mutual assistance, based on an affective and achieved relationship. Using terminology from the Stark and Dawson research ci ted earlier: there was a social context that affirmed and promoted affective bonding between religious seekers and those who held that friendship was a moral virtue to be extended to others. It was found in a societal consciousness having to do with those who earned, and could lose, their status as friends based on their helpfulness, assistance and mutual interaction as fellow religious seekers. 3. Friendship, Conversion and the Community Rule The point has been made that political changes during the Hellenistic period resulted in government institutions not providing people with adequate access to goods and services. Networks emerged in response; and friendships usually located in patron,client relationships were an essential part of those networks. One consequence was an emphasis on the social virtue of friendship which encouraged affective and achieved bonding between people. The networks blended a proactive and cultivated virtue of helpfulness and mutual assistance with personal attachments. Homeland Judaism at the turn of the common era met the conditions for the formation of new social movements following its long history of substantial shifts in political fortunes (e.g., the Maccabean era, and the reign of Herod the Great) and the regular changes that were made to important national 1
FRIENDSHIP AND SECTARIANISM
415
institutions-especially in regard to the Jerusalem Temple. Religious parties and sectarian groups such as the Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenes and Qumranites formed in direct response to political developments not only in ancient Palestine but in the larger Mediterranean world (Baumgarten 1997: 81,113; Sanders 1992: 4-5, 13-29). Parties were different from sects in that they accommodated those outside their group by including them as part of God's people, while sects excluded them. The final stage of this essay will consider what defined personal relationships in the Qumran Community Rule from Cave 1. Before turning to 1QS it is important to make four qualifications. First, the majority of homeland Jews did not belong to religious parties or sects. I follow Morton Smith who argued that "ordinary Jews" were not members of any sect (1960,61: 356; Broshi 1979: 6-7). Those involved with parties or sects numbered fewer than 12,000 out of a total population of about one million Jews in ancient Palestine at the turn of the common era. Josephus (Ant. 13.298, 18.20 and 17.42), for instance, indicates that there were some 4,000 Essenes and 6,000 Pharisees, while the Qumranites likely had between 100 and 250 members and the Sadducees an even smaller number. A decision to join a religious party or convert to a sectarian movement was uncommon among the general population of homeland Jews. Second, it is worth noting that religious parties and sects were not monolithic in practice or belief. This is especially true of the Qumranites who sponsored the Dead Sea Scrolls. They held a wide range of religious views, and the details of entrance and membership requirements found in the Community Rule reflect a specific scribal tradition-"a late 'vulgate' text that incorporates different documents with variously textual histories" (Charlesworth 1994: xxiii Davies 1992; 1998: 167-68). The importance of 1QS for the Qumranites, however, cannot be underestimated as it was memorized by initiates during their probationary period and also by standing members; it influenced other scrolls found at Qumran; and its final redacted version is one of the most important theological works of the scrolls. A third qualification is that parties and sects were not alienated from the power structures of society, and their members were not dissidents who held views totally out of step with common Judaism (Baumgarten 1997: 51). The fourth and last point to note is that Judaism was distinguished in antiquity for bringing all of life under its religious law and thus we should expect that Jews at the turn of the common era were looking for religious solutions to problems in
416
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
society, and for decisions about their personal lives. In other words, the profile cited by Stark and Dawson of initiates in modem new religious movements who are looking for religious solutions to personal dilemmas finds parallels with that of people joining sectarian movements in Second Temple Judaism. With regard to the proposal about a social awareness of friendship, the Community Rule from the Qumran scrolls provides some specific examples when it states that "all who dedicate themselves to do God's ordinances shall be brought into the covenant of friendship [10n nY):J.j to be a community of God's counsel" (1.8). This translation follows William Brownlee's extended commentary in the appendix to lQS where he states that 10n meant more than "mercy" or "loving-kindness," its conventional rendering. According
to
Brownlee, the term combines qualities of love and loyalty with intimacy and affective bonding (such as between David and Jonathan), approximating friendship between fellow religious seekers (195l: 48-49; Gaster 1965: 48 and Knibb 1987: 79 translate the terms as "a bond of mutual love" and "a covenant oflove," respectively). 1Dn in Proverbs 31 :26 has the sense of instruction in kindness or kindly instruction (Brown, Driver and Briggs 1974: 338). Given the significance of teaching in 1QS, where initiates pledged allegiance to the priests at Qumran as unquestioned masters of all that had been revealed to date and in the future (5.7- 13), the covenant offriendship highlights a key dynamic between fellow Qumranites, especially so if it expresses a larger social consciousness about assisting others. Commitment and devotion to fellow members based on active promotion of 1Dn are a regular theme in 1QS, with a range of applications involving both entrance issues and maintenance matters. The expression 1Dn n)1:J. promoting friendship in sectarian membership is unique to the Community Rule (Charlesworth 1994: 13 n.3 7) but it occurs some six times in the eleven columns of 1QS. In 1.8 initiates dedicate themselves to a covenant of friendship to become God's counsel, while in 2.24 they unite in a special bond of 1Dn as part of their ambition to form a holy council that will last forever. In 5.4 Qumranites promote themselves as a community ofTorah and in dOing so they instil "charity" (1Dn; Vermes 1997: 102) as a defining feature of the rules and pledges regulating their communal life. Indeed, those committed to the covenant of the community regularly examine each other on promoting 1Dn (5.25), and in 8.2 the counsel of the community defines itself, both as lay members and priests, with reference to the
FRIENDSHIP AND SECTARIANISM
417
practice of 10n. They hope to achieve perfection as a consequence. In 10.26, the closing hymn, members pledge to practise 10n toward the oppressed (Vermes 1997: 114). In conclusion, this brief assessment of the Community Rule suggests that the social virtue of friendship in the larger Mediterranean society finds specific expression in the affective and achieved bonding among fellow sectarians at Qumran. The passages cited from the scroll demonstrate that there was greater allegiance to members than to non-members. and that social networks of friendship resulted in affective bonding and personal attachments. To allude to the theme of these collected essays dedicated to Peter Richardson, there is indeed an interrelationship between text and context. Elias Bickerman observed that "people accept only the ideas for which their previous development has prepared their minds" (1988: 305), and friendship as part of the covenantal bond of Qumranites can now be seen to be firmly rooted in the larger Mediterranean world at the turn of the common era.
TEXT A~D ARTIFACT
418 References Atkins, L. A. 1963
"Friendship and Self-Sufficiency in Homer and Aristotle." Classical Quarterly 13: 30-45. Barth, Fredrik, ed.
1969
Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture Difference. London: Allen & Unwin. Bates, Frederick L. 1956 "Position, Role and Status: A Reformulation of Concepts." Social Forces 34: 313-21. Baumgarten, Albert I. 1997 The Flourishing ofJewish Sects in the Maccabean Era: An Interpretation. Leiden: Brill. Bickerman, Elias J. 1988 The Jews in the Greek Age. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Boissevain, Jeremy 1974 Friends of Friends: Networks, Manipulators and Coalitions. New York: St. Martin's. Boissevain, Jeremy and J. Clyde Mitchell 1973 Network Analysis: Studies in Human Interaction. The Hague: Mouton. Bott, Elizabeth [1957] Family and Social Networks: Roles, Norms and External 1975 Relationships in Ordinary Urban Families. Second ed. New York: Free Press. Broshi, Magen "Western Palestine in the Roman-Byzantine Period." Bulletin of the 1979 American Schools of Oriental Research 24: 1-10. Brown, Francis, S. R. Driver and Charles A. Briggs 1974 [1907] A Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament. Oxford: Clarendon. Brown, Peter 1987 "Person and Group in Judaism and Early Christianity." In Philippe Aries and Georges Duby (eds.), A History of Private Life, Vol. 1: From Pagan Rome to Byzantium, 253-67. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Brownlee, William H. 1951 "The Dead Sea Manual of Discipline." Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research. Supplementary Studies Nos. 10-12. New Haven: American Schools of Oriental Research.
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Brunt, P. A.
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'''Amicitia' in the Late Roman Republic." Proceedings of the Cambridge
Philosophical Society 11: 1-20. Charlesworth, James H., ed.
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The Dead Sea Scrolls: Hebrew, Aramaic and Greek Texts with English Translations, Vol. 1: Rule of the Community and Related Documents.
Louisville: Westminster/John Knox. Davies, Philip R. 1992 "Redaction and Sectarianism in the Qumran Scrolls." In F. Garda Martinez, A. Hilhorst and C. J. Labuschagne (eds.), The Scriptures
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and the Scrolls. Studies in Honour of A. S. van der Woude on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday, 152-63. Leiden: Brill. Scribes and Schools: The Canonization of the Hebrev.' Scriptures.
Louisville: Westminster;John Knox. Dawson, Lorne L. 1996 "Who Joins New Religious Movements and Why: Twenty Years of Research and What Have We Learned?" Studies in Religion/Sciences Rdigieuses 25: 145-52. Easterling P. E. 1989 "Friendship and the Greeks." In Roy Porter and Sylvana Tomaselli (eds.), The Dialectics of Friendship, 11-25. New Yark: Routledge. Eisenstadt, S. N. and L. Roniger
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Patrons, Clients and Friends: Interpersonal Relations and the Structure of Trust in Society. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Fitzgerald, John T., ed.
1996 1997
Friencilhip, Flattery, and Frankness of Speech: Studies on Friendship in the New Testament World. Leiden: Brill. Greco-Roman Perspectives on Friendship. Atlanta: Scholars Press.
Fraisse, Jean-Claude
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Philia: La notion d'amitie dans la philosophie antique. Paris: Vrin.
Gaster, Theodor H.
1965 The Dead Sea Scriptures. Garden City: Doubleday. Gellner, Ernest 1977 "Patrons and Clients." In Ernest Gellner and John Waterbury (eds.), Patrons and Clients in Mediterranean Societies, 1-6. London: Duckworth. Glad, Clarence E. 1996 "Frank Speech, Flattery, and Friendship in Philodemus." In Fitzgerald, Friendship, Flattery, and Frankness of Speech, 21-59.
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Glock, Charles Y. 1964 "The Role of Deprivation in the Origin and Evolution of Religious Groups." In Robert Lee and Martin E. Marty (eds.), Religion and Social Conflict, 24-36. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hutter, Horst Politics as Friendship: The Origins of Classical Notions of Politics in the 1978 Theory and Practice of Friendship. Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. Keesing, Roger M. 1975 Kin Groups and Social Structure. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston. Knibb, Michael A. 1987 The Qumran Community. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Konstan, David 1995 "Patrons and Friends." Classical Philology 90: 328-42. 1996a "Friendship, Frankness, and Flattery." In Fitzgerald, Friendship, Flattery, and Frankness of Speech, 7-19. 1996b "Problems in the History of Christian Friendship." Joumal of Early Christian Studies 4: 87-113. 1996c "Greek Friendship." American Joumal of Philology 117: 71-94. 1997 Friendship in the Classical World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Levine, Saul V. 1984 Radical Departures: Desperate Detours to Growing Up. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. Lofland, John and Rodney Stark 1965 "Becoming a World-Saver: A Theory of Conversion to a Deviant Perspective." American Sociological Review 30: 862-75. Malina, Bruce J. 1993 [1981] The New Testament World: Insights from Cultural Anthropology. Second ed. Louisville: WestminsterlJohn Knox. 1996 The Social World of Jesus and the Gospels. London: Routledge. Malina, Bruce). and Jerome H. Neyrey 1991 "First-Century Personality: Dyadic, not Individual." In Jerome H. Neyrey (ed.), The Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation, 67-96. Peabody: Hendrickson. Mitchell, J. Clyde 1969 "The Concept and Use of Social Networks." In J. Clyde Mitchell (ed.), Social Networks in Urban Situations, 1-50. Manchester: Manchester University Press.
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Osiek, Carolyn and David L Balch
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Families in the New Testament World: Households and House Churches.
Louisville: Westminster;John Knox. Radcliffe-Brown, A. R.
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Structure and Function in Primitive Society: Essays and Addresses. London: Cohen and West.
Rajak, Tessa 1985
"Jews and Christians as Groups in a Pagan World." In Jacob Neusner and Ernest S. Frerichs (eds.), "To See Ourselves as Others See Us": Christians, Jews, "Others" in Late Antiquity, 247-62. Chico: Scholars Press.
Rist, John M. 1980 "Epicurus on Friendship." Classical Philology 75: 121-29. Saller, Richard P. 1982 Personal Patronage Under the Early Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. "Patronage and Friendship in Early Imperial Rome: Drawing the 1989 Distinction." In Wallace-Hadrill, Patronage in Ancient Society, 49-62. Sanders, E. P. Judaism: Practice and Belief, 63 BCE-66 CEo London: SCM. 1992 Smith, Morton "The Dead Sea Sect in Relation to Ancient Judaism." New Testament 1960-61
Studies 7: 347-60. Stark, Rodney "The Rise of a New \Vorld Faith." Review of Religious Research 26: 1984
18-271987
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"How New Religions Succeed: A Theoretical Model." In David G. Bromley and Phillip E. Hammond (eds.), The Future of New Religious Movements, 11-29. Macon: Mercer University Press. "Epidemics, Networks. and the Rise of Christianity." In White, Social Networks in the Early Christian Environment, 159-75. "Modernization and Mormon Growth." In Marie Cornwall, Tim B. Heaton and Lawrence Young (eds.), A Sociological Analysis of Mormonism, 1-23. Champaign: University of Illinois Press. The Rise of Christianity: A Sociologist Reconsiders History. Princeton: Princeton University Press. [reprinted as The Rise of Christianity: How
the Obscure, Marginal Jesus Movement Became the Dominant Religious Force in the Western \Vorld in a Few Centuries. San Francisco: HarperCollins, 1997 J
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Stark. Rodney and William Simfi Bainbridge
1985
The Future of Religion: Secularization. Revival and Cult Fonnation. Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press.
Suttles, G. D.
1970
"Friendship as a Social Institution." In George J. McCall et al. (cds.), Social Relationships, 95·135. Chicago: Aldine.
Vermes, Geza 1997 The Complete Dead Sea Scrolls in English. London: Penguin. Walbank, F. W. 1984 "Monarchies and Monarchic Ideas." In F. W. Walbank et al. (cds.), Cambridge Ancient History, 7.1.62-100. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wallace-Hadrill, Andrew, ed. 1989 Patronage in Ancient Society. LondonlNew York: Routledge. Wallis, Roy The Elementary Forms of New Religious Life. London: Routledge and 1984 Kegan Paul. White, L. Michael 1992a Social Networks in the Early Christian Environment: Issues and Methods for Social History [Semeia 56). Atlanta: Scholars Press. "Finding the Ties That Bind: Issues from Social Description." In 1992b White, Social Networks in the Early Chrisrian Environment, 3·22. "Social Networks: Theoretical Orientation and Historical 1991c Applications." In White, Social Networks in the Early Christian
Environment, 22-.36. Wolf, E. R. 1966
"Kinship, Friendship, and Patron-Client Relations in Complex Societies." In Michael Banton (ed.), The Social Anthropology of Complex Societies, 1·22. London: Tavistock.
25 WHAT JOSEPHUS SAYS ABOUT THE ESSENES IN HIS JUDEAN WAR STEVE MASON
Probably the most famous text-artifact connection made by modern scholarship in our field has been the marriage of Qumraner with Essene-a figure known for two millennia in Greek and Latin texts. Parallels between Josephus's Essenes, particularly those of War 2.119-61, and the people of the Dead Sea Scrolls have been crucial in forging this happy union, along with the elder Pliny's notice about Esseni who lived in the Judean desert (Hist. Nat. 5.15.73). In the past decade a growing cadre of scholars has objected to the Qumran-Essene theory from various perspectives, while the orthodox have responded by making the theory unfaIsifiable, along such lines as these (Rajak 1994: 142): Josephus was describing Jewish ascetics who were, at the very least, part of the same tradition as those who, over the generations, wrote the sectarian scrolls from Qumran, even if the correlation is not exact;. . . the portrait [of the Essenes in Josephus] is based upon those who occupied, in one fashion or another, at one stage or another, the installations at Qumran.
With similar open-endedness, the "Groningen hypothesis" postulates a rift within Essenism to explain the differences between Qumran and the classical sources (Garcia Martinez 1996: Iii-1m). And Hartmut Stegemann tries to reconcile all the evidence by understanding Qumran as a mere outpost, a quiet research retreat (1992: 161), of a much larger Essene community-understood as the "main Jewish Union" of the time (165). This is a long way from the original and still popular Sukenik/de Vaux understanding of Qumran as the Essene home or base, but it shows how difficult it now is to engage the Qumran-Essene theory: the theory will accommodate almost any problem by
424
TEXT AND ARTIFACf
resorting to different times, places and factions of an exquisitely malleable "Essene" phenomenon. My primary goal in this essay is not to meddle in such a famou:;, though by no means blissfully secure, marriage. I want to ask, very simply, what Josephus says about the Essenes in Judean War. I want to ask this chiefly because the question has not yet been answered, or even been unambiguously posed, to my knowledge. We need to read Josephus's Essenes in the contexts he provides. As a corollary (only), I shall ask how any fair reading ofJosephus's Essenes in War bears on the Qumran-Essene question.
1. The Essenes of Josephus: Overview and Correlations Let us begin our study proper with a synopsis of references to Essenes in Josephus.
Antiquities
War
n
13.171- 'EooTJvoi [Y€VoC; in 1721. At the time ofJonathan the Hasmonean (ca. 150 BeE), Josephus interrupts his paraphrase of 1 Mace to date and describe three schools; compares Essenes philosophically with Pharisees and Sadducees; refers back to his fuller description in War 2. 13.298 'Eoortvoi. Passing reference, after comparison of Pharisees and Sadducees, to explain John Hyrcanus's defection to the Sadducees, the beginning of later problems; refers to fuller description in War 2. 1.78' Eooc.doC; yevoc;.Judas, teaching 13.311 'EooctloC; (mss. AMWE Lat) or students in Jerusalem at the time of . EooTJvoC; (marg. AM) 1;0 yivoc;. Judas, Aristobulus I (104 BeE); a f.LcXvnc; a f.LcXvnc; at time of Aristobulus, predicts the death of Antigonus I in habitually teaches in the Temple concerning prediction. Strato's Tower.
425
JOSEPHUS ABOUT THE ESSENES
War
2.113 'Eaaato!,; to yeva!,;. Simon, in Jerusalem (I), time of Archelaus (ca. 6 CE), interprets fateful dream, when J.l.<XVt€t!,; and Xct.A.oct.lat could not. 2.119-61 [2.119,158,160] 'EoaTJvoi (' Iauoct.10l yivac,; OVtEc,;). Essenes ca. 6 CE in Judea described at length, contrasted with the ct.ipEatr; of the aaqnatTlc,;. Judas cursorily compared with Pharisees and Sadducees . 2.567 . Eaact.ioc,;. John [NB: yevac,; used of Niger IIEpa.i1:Yg; in previous sentence]' commander of a region N and W of Judea during the revolt. 3.11 'Eaoaiar;. Niger (6 IIEpat'tTJr;), Silas (6 BapuA.wvwc,;) and John (6 , Eooaiar;) attack Ascalon; John and Silas die (3.19). 5.145 'EaaTJvoi. The oldest wall of Jerusalem has a "Gate of the Essenes."
Antiquities 15.371-78 . Eaact.10l and 'EoaTJvo{. After noting that the Pharisees were excused from the oath to Herod on account of Pollion, Josephus claims that "those called 'Eooalot among us" were also excused (15.371). This yivoc,; is like that of the Pythagoreans. Promising to say more about them later (cf. Ant. 18.18-22), he will now explain why Herod honoured the 'EooTjvo( (15.372): One of the 'EooTjvo( predicted Herod's rise and fall. Many , EooTlvoi have knowledge of the future. 17.346 'Eooa.ior; (<
Life 10-12 . EooTjvoC Referring to frequent earlier descriptions, Josephus notes again that there are three philosophical schools among the Judeans.
This synopsis immediately suggests several points with respect to the names that Josephus uses for the Essenes.
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
By way of context, we need to recall that group names were extremely fluid in ancient Greek. In English also we have different ways of rendering such names. for many prominent groups (Parisians, Bostonians, Torontonians; Londoners, Berliners, New Yorkers; Vancouverites) the appropriate possessive is established by convention: one simply does not say Londonian. But what should we call someone from Stoney Creek or Sydney? In ancient Greek there were at least three common possessive forms of names: -awe; (,Pwp,aioe;, · Iouoaioe;, XaAoaioc;, . A8'11 vaioe;), -voc; (~al!aOK'I1VOC;, cI>1AaoEA
JOSEPHUS ABOUT THE EsSENES
427
in his reference to the "Gate of the 'Eao'llvoi in Jerusalem" (War 5.145). Josephus himself thus uses the n-form, even though it is he who says that "among us they are called 'Eooa~Ol." (Ant. 15.371). Third, although there is no correlation between either form of the name and a source, there is a correlation between each term and grammatical number. All thirteen undisputed occurrences of 'Eoa'llv6~ are in the plural, though some weaker manuscript evidence also supports the singular • Eaa'llv6~ in Antiquities
13.311. Of the six occurrences of •Eaoaio<;, conversely, five are in the singular and refer to named individuals. Josephus prefers to write . Eaaaio~ on the one hand, but 'Eaa'llvoi on the other. Why? We have a major due, fourth, in Antiquities 15.371-78, the one place in which Josephus uses . Eoaatoc,; in the plural, and seems to explain what he is doing. After describing how Herod excused the Pharisees from taking an oath ofloyalty, he continues: Also excused from this obligation were those called among us . Eooaio1 [oi nap' tllliv 'EooaioL KIXA01JIlEV01]. Now this is a y€vo<; that adheres to a way of life laid down among the Greeks [nap' "EU'Il01 vI by Pythagoras. Although, then, I shall speak about these men more clearly elsewhere, it is fitting to discuss the reason why Herod honoured the' EooT]voC thus. (Ant. 15.371-72; cf. also' EooT]voC in 15.373,378, the balance of the passage) The sense of this passage seems clear. Josephus has already mentioned the 'Eao'llvoi in the Antiquities (13.171-72, 298). Now he chooses to note that the group members are actually called' Eaaai01 among Jews, although he immediately returns to 'Eoo'llvoi for the remainder of the passage. If Jews normally call them' EoaaiOl., but he uses' Eoo'llvoi for his Greek and Roman readers, then we may assume that he knew this to be the name that was more familiar to his readers. As it happens, we have confirmation of this reading in the literature outside Josephus. Philo, a Jew, consistently calls the group' Eaoai01 (Free 75·
91; Apol. 1-18). The Roman writers Pliny the Elder (Hist. Nat. 5.73) and Dio ofPrusa (in Synesius, Dia 3.2), by contrast, use Esseni or 'Eoo'llvoi. The simple conclusion is that Josephus, with typical sensitivity to his readers, adapted his language to suit them: while noting the Greek spelling that Jews preferred, he nevertheless used the familiar plural for his readers. Why, then, did he revert to 'Eaaaio~ for individuals? We can only guess that, although he would
428
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
willingly capitulate to the familiar plural, when he came to describe individuals who were not famous there was no particular reason to call each of them by the odd-sounding singular . EooTJvo<;; this form had no established tradition. Although Josephus discusses this linguistic principle only in Antiquities 15, it is easy to imagine that he unconsciously followed it when he switched from
the singular . Eaacdo~ in War 2.113 to the plural' EaoTlvo( in War 2.119. It is certainly easier to imagine this than to suppose that he was following two different sources within Antiquities 15.3 71-78-where he also speaks about his plans to discuss the Essenes more fully in the future (cf. Ant. 18.18-22}-and two different sources in War 2.113 -19. This understanding ofJosephus admittedly requires his awareness that the name of the Essenes may have already been known to his non-Jewish readers. Since the Qumran-Essene hypothesis has habituated us to viewing the Essenes as a small and isolated community (Stegemann 1992), this possibility might seem shocking. But all of the Essene evidence points in this direction: the Essenes are the only one of the three Josephan schools mentioned by Philo--at length and repeatedly-and by non-Christian Greek and Roman authors (Pliny and Dio). Josephus agrees with Philo in describing them as widely dispersed throughout Judea. Since Philo and Josephus both choose to make them the shining embodiment of Jewish virtues, they might well have supposed that at least the name of this group was already known among some educated Greeks and Romans. In at least one case, finally, there is good reason to believe that Josephus understands . Eaaaior; as an ethnikon, designating someone from Essa. He mentions one place called Essa in the Transjordan (Ant. 13.393
= Gerasa in
War 1.104), and a person from Essa would most naturally be called an . Eaaaio~. In War 2.567 we arc introduced to the commanders chosen for the revolt: Niger the Perean, John the' Eaaato<;, Josephus and others. In War 3.11, similarly, we are told of Niger 6 IIEpahTlC;;, Silas
<'>
Ba~uAwvlOC;;
and
John 6 . Eaaaio~. These immediate contexts, along with the fact that John is never credited with any of the traits otherwise mentioned for Essenes, provide prima facie support for Schalit's proposal (1968: 46) chat in John's case
. Eauaior; means "of Essa." That] osephus failed to clarify this in relation to the other occurrences of 'Eaaatoc;; would be bothersome, but not unduly so.
429
JOSEPHUS ABOUT THE ESSENES
There is sufficient context for the other two ethnika to be understood as such; why not this one! 2. Josephus's Outlook: In General and in Judean War To understand how Josephus uses the Essenes in his narratives, we need to maintain some dialectic between the whole (Why is he writing? What are his narratives about!) and the parts (How do the Essenes contribute to the narratives?). Such questions are too large to be treated fully here, but something must be said about them. I have isolated five propositions about Josephus as an author that I consider both fundamental and easily demonstrable. The first four concern Josephus in general; the fifth focusses on
War. All of his writings presuppose a primarily Gentile audience in Rome that is keen to learn about Judean culture.
Josephus poses as a leading aristocrat in a worldwide system of aristocracies, expertly knowledgeable about his nation's constitution and its
patria ethe or mas maiarum. Directly engaging the long-standing discussion of constitutions among his counterparts in Rome, he wishes to show that the Judean code is the most ancient, the purest and noblest in existence. He details its perfect balance of precept and practice, its accessibility to an and its combination of inexorable justice and humanity (Rajak 1998). In the context of the Flavian house's move toward ever-increasing autocracy, Josephus presents the Judean constitution as one that emphatically rejects monarchy in favour of priestly aplO't'oKpa't'ia (Ant. 4.223; 5.15,43,55, 135; 6.36; 11.111; 12.138, 142). His own yivoC;, natOEia and
~ioC;
provide a brilliant example
of the Judean aristocrat in action (Life; Mason 1998a). Just as in Rome the republican senatorial movement had strong philosophical connections, so too do the Judean aristocrats view their constitution as an embodiment of the very laws of nature. Many of the nation's founders and great figures were also peerless philosophers (e.g., Abraham, Moses, Solomon, Daniel). Their constitution discusses such basic issues as fate and free will, and the nature of the soul; the culture even has its own philosophical schools, which debate these matters. Judeans as a nation live philosophically, which is to say simply and virtuously, despising even death in their determination to follow their excellent laws. They realize in their daily lives the highest aspirations of all peoples. Josephus's philosophical discussions
430
TEXT AND ARTIFACf
intersect neatly with those current among the popular and moral philosophers of the late first century. In the standard fashion of an aristocrat, Josephus views the Judean populace as a rather gullible mass (ITA ijeoe;), needing the direction of the ruling class and all too vulnerable to the pitches of demagogues, who promise them material, economic and spiritual salvation. War charts and laments the proper authorities' loss of control to self-seeking would-be tyrants (note close parallels in Roman history). Josephus despises those who usurp legitimate constitutional rule. In Antiquities 4.14-20, the Catiline-like popularis Korah is the paradigm of a demagogue: a nobleman who played to the crowds, pretending to have their interests at heart but really seeking his own aggrandizement (Mason 1998b). Josephus excoriates such figures, whether militants or would-be Messiahs-anyone who favours change or revolution of any kind. According to Josephus, the Judeans at their best, and certainly their legitimate leaders, are exemplary world citizens. Because they recognize that their God controls all history---causing now one power, now another, to rise or fall-they easily co-operate with any current power (Mason 1994). Josephus has a broad kind of eschatology, but it is world-affirming or healthy-minded, in William James's terms Games 1928: 78-123). He already sees the widespread growth of the Judean nation in numbers and in fame, and he looks forward to the day when his nation will have its turn as a world power. This view, similar to Philo's in Rewards and Punishments, lacks any apocalyptic urgency (Hecht 1987). Indeed, Josephus appears fundamentally opposed to sudden change and messianic personalities. In his biblical interpretation, Josephus decidedly favours the plain sense (p<shat) , the law's prescriptions and its moral implications, even though occasionally he ventures into allegory in order to make universal connections with the Judean laws. In his considerable body of biblical interpretation (e.g., Ant. 1-11), there is nothing that qualifies as pesher or Endzeit-driven, although in a few places he does look forward to further fulfilments of scripture. In spite of a long scholarly tradition that has trained us to think of it as Roman propaganda, War presents itself as a challenge to the various pro-Roman and anti-Judean accounts already in circulation. Since we do not possess those accounts, we do not know what was in them. But a "mirror-reading" of War,
JOSEPHUS ABOUT THE ESSENES
431
complemented by clues from later Roman texts that mention the Judean war, produces a coherent picture: Greek and Roman authors had claimed that the revolt was the expression of an allegedly restive Judean national character, schooled by an anti-social God and set oflaws. The J udeans were both impious toward the gods and lacking in appropriate respect for other people. The Roman victory was clear proof of Rome's virtue and fortuna. Josephus's War attempts to show that, on the contrary, Judeans have an old and a noble constitution, that their heroes once ruled a vigorous and independent state with divine aid, and that their most famous king (Herod) was a great friend and ally of Rome. Most important, the recent revolt was not an expression of the national character, but a complete aberration that resulted from the legitimate rulers' tragic loss of control to a gallery of self-serving demagogues-t1.lpIXVVOl, AnO'tIX(, (TtAW'tIX( and sicarii-who ultimately elicited God's punishment. Far from abandoning his people, the Judean God actually used the Romans as his instruments, to purge his Temple of the pollution! The Judeans are in fact the most pious of all peoples toward the Deity, and the most concerned about justice toward their fellows. Life was admittedly very difficult in Judea under a series of abominable Roman governors, but even still the Judean leaders would have kept things under control if they had managed to maintain the faith of the populace. Those who fomented revolt have now been duly punished-and postwar antipathy toward Judeans should cease (Bilde 1979; Rajak 1983). This general context is, I am arguing, crucial for understanding Josephus's portrait of the Essenes in War. We have two main options in reading the Essene passage: to regard it as a coherent part of this work, or to choose incoherence-lacking sources for the period 6 to 66 eE, Josephus chose to use the Essenes and the other schools as a sort of space-filler. Although, as we have seen, scholarship on the Essenes has strongly tended toward the latter option, it has little to commend it. Josephus makes important points about the Hasmoneans and Herods (War 1.31-2.110) as background to his main story, so why should we not look for similar points in the Essene passage, which forms the principal part of the bridge to his own time? The proof is in the language and tone of his presentation.
432
TEXT AND ARTIFACT'
3. How Josephus's Judean War Portrays the Essenes The Essene excursus (War 2.119-61) is prompted by at least two narrative developments in the immediate context. First, in briefly describing Archelaus's ten-year reign, Josephus chooses to focus almost exclusively on the' Eooaioc; named Simon, who was instrumental in mediating the Judean God's judgment on this miscreant (2.112-16) for his savage treatment of Judeans and Samaritans (2.111). Much earlier in the story (1. 78-80), Josephus had planted the seed of interest in the remarkable abilities of the Essenes with his story of Judas the' Eooaioc;, who never erred in his predictions. Now he opens a full discussion of this admirable group. Second, Josephus notes that the death of Archelaus (6 CE) marked the arrival of a Roman prefect and, consequently, sparked the creation of a new rebel school of philosophy that called for lX')1;OO'ttx.OtC;
from Rome (2.118), a major negative category (akin to otcXO\C;)
in War. We are in a rich thematic vein of War, therefore, when Josephus now introduces the' EooT]voi (with Pharisees and Sadducees) in potent contrast to the rebel school (2.118-19). The . Eoo1lvoi in particular, who receive the lion's share of attention here, will illustrate brilliantly the noble tradition of the Judeans as good citizens. To illustrate where I am going with this analysis, I begin with a general orientation. Josephus concludes what we know of his literary life with an extended, rousing encomium onJudean culture in Against Apion 2.145-295. At the very end of that passage he summarizes, in a lofty rhetorical flight captured well by Thackeray (2.293-94): What greater beauty than inviolable piety [euoePEia]? What greaterjustice [on:at6-tepov1than obedience to the laws? What more beneficial than to be in harmony with one another [npoc; aAAtlA.OUC; 0llovoelv], to be a prey neither to disunion [ot(01:a08at] in adversity, nor to arrogance [E~upp((onac;] and faction [ataoui(elV] inprosperityj in war to despise death [8avatou Kctta
JOSEPHUS ABOUT THE EsSENES
433
Let us now consider a dozen issues that Josephus raises concerning the , Eoollvo( of War 2, in order to see how this group serves his larger narrative emphases. First, it is disguised by the Loeb translation, but Josephus is so eager to make an opening general statement about the 'Eoollvo( that he does so before even mentioning their name. They are the third form of Judean philosophy, "which is reputed to, and certainly does, behave with gravity [or dignity] [OT! Kat OOKEt OEJ.1 vo't"ll't"a aOKEtv], called' Eoollvo(: although they [too] are Judeans by birth, they are more affectionate toward one another
[
434
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
not in fact. His widow Alexandra both seemed
(c56~a)
to be pious and really was
(oij, 1.108). It was because the Pharisees were reputed to be unusually pious (ooKew, 1.110) that they deceived her, who really was (oij) reverent of the Deity (1.111). It is a perfectly Josephan thing to say, therefore, that the Essenes both were reputed to train themselves in dignity and truly did. Also the delayed identifying phrase, "called Essenes," has close parallels elsewhere in Josephus, especially in War (War 2.101; 7.43,329,359,375; Ant. 4.72; 17.41,324). Second, the first illustration Josephus gives of the Essenes' exemplary character, written in three
flev ... Oi contrasts is significant: it concerns their
(male) attitude toward the passions, sex and women. "Although they shun the pleasures [iJoovai] as vice [KaK(a] , they regard self-control [eYKpatE1.a] and not submitting to the passions as virtue [apE'tij]" (2.120). "Although they hold marriage in contempt," they adopt the children of others "and they impress their principles of character [,,8eow] upon them" (2.120). "Although they do not abrogate marriage and the succession [of humanity] from it, they protect themselves from the wanton actions of women [yuvaLKwv aOeA. y€(a<;;], persuaded that no [woman) keeps faith [1t(onv] with one man." In all of its aspects, this could hardly be more typical of Josephus's presentation of Judean ideals. Mastery of the passions was of course basic popular philosophy and, with a strong dose of misogyny admixed, reflected the conservative values of Rome that were so fondly attributed to Cato (Plutarch,
Cat. Ma. 1-9). This is how Josephus presents Judaism too. The juxtaposition of virtue and vice, apE'tT} Kat KaK(a, which reappears near the end of the Essene passage (2.156), is for him standard (War 2.586; 4.325, 387; Ant. 1.72; 8.252; 17.101, 246; 18.14; Apion 2.145). Mastery ofthe path and avoidance of the iJoova( are major themes in his portrayal of his nation's laws (cf. for Rome, Plutarch, Cat.
Ma. 2.3; 3.6; 4.2; 11.3). His namesake Joseph demonstrates his mastery over passion, while unsuccessfully trying to persuade Potiphar's wife to govern hers
(Ant. 2.43, 53). Josephus focusses his final encomium of Moses on the great lawgiver's sovereignty over his passions (Ant. 4.328). By contrast, Mariamne used her womanly wiles to take advantage of Herod's enslavement to passion
(Ant. 15.219). As for women's allegedly wanton behaviour, this is one of Josephus's instinctive topoi (cf. Philo, Mos. 1.305): he uses this same phrase of the
JOSEPHUS ABOUT THE ESSENES
435
notorious femmes fatales Jezebel (Ant. 8.318), Cleopatra (Ant. 15.98) and Mariamne (War 1.439). The ghost of Herod's son Alexander gives gratuitous voice to Josephus's sentiments about women in Antiquities 17.351-53: he comes back from the dead in a dream to chastise Glaphyra for her subsequent remarriages, confirming (he says) "the saying that 'women are not to be trusted.'" And Josephus's Moses, in rejecting testimony from women, throws in some remarks about their fickleness (Ant. 4.219; cf. 13.430-31 and Apion 2.201). In remarking here upon the Essenes' eYKpa't'Eux, Josephus initiates one of his major points about them. In 2.138 he claims that they are kept outside the order for a year to prove their eYKpa't'Eux, and he goes on to equate this quality with their character (~eOC;), which must be tested for two further years before full admission. This is all quite Roman and Josephan, since self-control was a principal ingredient of the Roman conception of character (May 1988). Josephus writes a book about his own character (Life 430), which repeatedly features his restraint and self-contro!' None other than Vespasian himself counsels eYK{)
agentis, parallel to "despisers of danger" later in the Essene passage (War 2.151). In AnLiquities 6.347 Josephus uses the same unusual phrase of those "despisers of danger" who emulate King Saul's bravery.
436
TEXT AND ARTIFAcr
Although Josephus has little occasion to speak elsewhere of a group's common stock of property ('to K01VWV1KOV), terms built on the KOlV- root as well as the theme of simplicity are common in his writings.
KOt vwv(a
is a
major Josephan theme in part because, for him, it is the opposite oj the f.L taa v8pul1t(a with which Judeans have so often been charged, especially after
the revolt. But, he protests, the Judean laws are designed to produce K01 vwv(a
(Apion 2.146, 151, 208). It is hard not to hear echoes of his Essenes when he continues: "[W]e were born for KOlvwv(a, and he who sets its claims above his private interests is specially acceptable to God" (Apion 2.196). When the Greek philosophers taught "simplicity oflife and fellowship with one another," they were only imitating Moses (Apion 2.281). This simplicity and sharing of goods have an important place inJosephus's final summary of the laws: "[T1hey do not teach misanthropy, but encourage the common sharing of possessions"
(Apion 2.291). No wonder Josephus considers the degree of common ownership among the Essenes marvellous (8auf.Laaw<;). Incidentally, this editorial interjection of 8auf.1a(Jw~ is also normal for him (War 4.478; 5.174; Ant. 2.198, 265). Some other correlations in this passage: (a) Josephus reverts to the term
c:tiP€OlC; for the Essene "school" (War 2.122), which is characteristic (2.118; Ant. 13.171,288,293; Life 10, 12); and (b) the phrase "abundance of wealth" in War 2.122 has a close parallel in Antiquities 9.3. One of the many casualties of the Qumran-Essene hypothesis has been Josephus's plain statement that "they have no one city, but many [of them] form colonies in each" (War 2.123). To state the obvious, these are the very same Essenes he has been talking about all along: celibate and living in close communities. (He is not talking about marrying Essenes.) When scholars have asked whether Josephus personally knew much about the Essenes, they have usually discussed Life 10-11: Did he really go off (to the desert) to study with them (Bauer 1924: 403; Bergmeier 1993: 9, 20-21)? But we do not need Ufe
10-12 to see that Josephus claims to know the Essenes very well. This Jerusalemite aristocrat, who claims to be a leader of his people, says that many Essenes settle in each city. This fits with his incidental remarks elsewhere in War about Essenes in Jerusalem (1. 78) and even about the Essene gate of the city wall (5.145). He evidently means to stress that Essenes truly are
JOSEPHUS ABOUT THE ESSENES
437
representative of the best Judeans: they are not some isolated group, but their healthful presence is felt throughout Judean society. Fourth, perhaps the most controversial statements that Josephus makes about the Essenes concern their reverence for the sun as a deity. Their special piety has them "offering certain prayers to him [the sun], as though entreating him
to
rise" (iKH€UOn€~ aVC(tElAcn, War 2.128). Further on we read that
Essenes wrap their cloaks about them when defecating "so as not to outrage the rays of [the] God" (2.148). These remarks have long puzzled Josephus's users, especially those who read him in light of the Dead Sea Scrolls. His statements have either been flattened to accord with the Scrolls' "prayers at dawn" (Beall 1988: 52-54) or have encouraged arbitrary source theories (Bergmeier 1993: 84)-for surely no observant Jew could speak thus! Again, we need to read this passage in the context ofJosephus's narrative themes. The Essenes' "piety toward God" we shall return to presently, in conjunction with their oaths. For now, let us note that the verb iKEtEUW ("entreat," "approach as supplicant") is extremely common in Josephus, with more than one hundred occurrences, many of those in connection with God. Most important, and all but universally overlooked: elsewhere in his writing, Josephus tends to personify the sun and see it as a representation of God. A little later in War, for example, he claims that the Zealots "polluted the Deity" when they left corpses unburied beneath the sun (War 4.382-83; cf. 3.377; 4.317). Still later, Titus vows to bury the memory of Jerusalem's cannibalism in rubble, so that "the sun cannot look upon it" (War 6.217). Antiquities is noteworthy on this issue. In 1.282-83, God (speaking) parallels his watching over the earth with the sun's: Abraham's children "shall fill all that the sun beholds of earth and sea ... for it is I who am watching over all that you will do." Later, Moses positions the tabernacle, the special house of God (3.LOO), so as to catch the sun's first rays (3.115). He also directs the Israelites, once in Canaan, to create an altar oriented toward the sun (4.305). The High Priest's upper garment is woven with gold to represent the everpresent rays of the sun (3.184). God has made the Judeans the happiest people under the sun, says Balaam (4.114). Saul promises victory to allies, such that "the ascending sun should see them already victors" (6.76; cf. 6.216; 8.49; 9.225). It seems significant, then, that Josephus turns the phrase of 1 Maccabees 9: 10, "Far be it from me to do this deed," into "May the sun not
438
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
look upon such a thing" (12.424). It accords with this theme that he has Mark Antony speak of the sun looking away from the murder of Julius Caesar (14.309; cf. 16.99, 108; 18.46; Apion 1.306). IfJosephus's Essenes revere the sun as God, there is no reason to look for some non-Jewish source to explain War 2.128 and 148. This theme simply confirms that Josephus's Essenes express his typical language and themes. Fifth, Essenes bathe daily in frigid water (a1tOAOuov'tat 'to oWj.1a 1jJuxpoic; uaaot v) for purification (ayvE(a) and participate in various trades
or crafts ('tExva1) (War 2.129). These acts are not unusual in the broader context. Elsewhere, Josephus explains, Judeans who experience nocturnal emissions plunge into cold water the next day (Ant. 3.263). He himself was no stranger to the purificatory cold bath. He boasts in Life 11 that when he was with Bannus he "bathed frequently in frigid water, day and night, for purification." The reference to trades is also significant because, as we saw in the opening quotation from Against Apion 2.293-94 above, Josephus considers participation in trades and agriculture the admirable peacetime activity of all Judeans. It is hardly coincidental that according to Anti4uities 18.19 the Essenes engage in the other side of this pair, agriculture-an ideal Roman pursuit (Plutarch, Cat. Ma. 2.1; 3.1-4). Sixth, of the Essenes' main meal, Josephus says that no bawling or mob noise pollutes it (oihE at KpauYrl ... OiltE eopu~oc; j.11a(vEl); it is marked by sobriety and measuring or rationing (-ro j.1ErpEio8at) of food and drink (-rpoi1 Ka1 1to-rOC;). They eat and drink until satisfied (j.1iXPt KOPOU, War
2.132-33). With these phrases, compare: KpauY1l -r€ Kat 8opupoC; in War 3.493 (also 6.256); the ubiquitous theme of pollution in War (verb lua(vw occurring some twenty-one times in this book; seventeen times elsewhere in Josephus);
-rpo~
Kat1to-roc; in War 7.278 (also Ant. 6.360, 377; 7.159,274);
rationing of water in War 3.183; eating and drinking until satisfied (j.1eXpt KOpOU) in War 4.465; and Josephus's emphasis on the restraint of Judean
sacrificial meals in contrast to those of others (Apion 2.195). Both here (2.111) and in Antiquities 18.22 Josephus incidentally mentions the critical function that priests play in Essene communities. It hardly needs stressing that the proud priest Josephus (War 1.3) understands the priestly aristocracy as the heart and soul oOudean tradition (e.g., Apion 2.188-89).
JOSEPHUS ABOUT THE EsSENES
439
Seventh, the description "fair administrators of anger, able to restrain temper, masters offidelity [or loyalty], servants of peace" (War 2.135) serves Josephus's narrative aims perfectly. Unlike the reckless rebel tyrants, whose hot-headed behaviour precipitated the revolt, the Essenes always keep their composure with dignity and peaceful action. Unlike the traitorous, lying rebels, they do not break faith. They are the best examples of the ideal Judean temperament. Peace (EipllvTJ) is a favourite Josephan word: the noun alone appears 106 times. Contrasting temper (SUI10t;;) is particularly common in War, where Josephus regularly cites it as a vice of the rebels (thirty-nine of its fiftyseven occurrences). Moreover, "able to restrain," or Ka;SEKt-, words occur only in War (2.12; 5.20). With this admiring stock description of Stoic and Roman male-like imperviousness to external impressions (cf. Cicero, Rhet. 75-80), we may connect Josephus's later reference to the Essenes' behaviour during wartime (2.151-53). "They triumph over pain by their deliberate concentration": Racked and twisted, burnt and broken, and made to pass through every instrument of torture, in order that they might either defame the lawgiver or eat something forbidden, they refused to yield to either demand, nor ever once did they cringe .... (Thackeray) "Despisers of danger" (Kcna<\>pOVTrra\ 't'WV OElVWV), they smiled in their agonies. As is well known, contempt for death was understood to be the acid test of any true philosophy. Josephus knows this too, so in Against Apion he stresses this virtue of all Judeans (2.232-34): Has anyone ever heard of a case of our people, not, I mean, in such large numbers, but merely two or three, proving traitors to their laws or afraid of death? I do not refer to the easiest of deaths, on the battlefield, but death accompanied by physical torture, which is thought to be the hardest of alL To such a death we are, in my belief, exposed by some of our conquerors ... from a curiosity to witness the astonishing spectacle of men who believe that the only evil which can befall them is to be compelled to do any act or utter any word contrary to their laws .... Our willing obedience to the law in these matters [discipline with respect to food and drink] results in the heroism which we display in the face of death.
440
TEXT AND ARTIFACf
We encounter this stance again, for instance, in Against Apion 2.219 and 27172: the facts (presumably, the recent war in particular) have made it clear to everyone that "already many of our people, and on many occasions, have chosen to suffer spectacularly rather than utter a single word against the law." Strikingly, in the closing remarks of his final book, he uses the very same word group (Buvchou KU'tCXPOVEtV, Apion 2.294) that he uses of the Essenes here in War. His Essenes embody the most characteristic Judean ideals. Eighth, when we come to the twelve oaths that Essenes must swear, upon fully joining the order after three years of preparation (War 2.139-42), we reach the kernel of their outlook as Josephus presents it. Here above all they provide a model of the Judean attitude toward the world, which it is Josephus's purpose to explain in War.
It is all but universally held that Josephus contradicts himself (or his sources do!) by first making a point of the Essenes' "avoidance" (or getting around, dodging) of swearing (oj.Lvunv 7tEPlto't'uv't'(n), on the ground that every word of theirs is stronger than an oath (2.135), and then listing twelve awesome oaths that they in fact swear (OpKOUC;; ... OJ.LVUOl ptKWOnc;;, 2.139; Bergmeier 1993: 69). These are not contradictory propositions, however, and Josephus's explanation of Moses' commandments in Antiquities 3.91 may help to clarify the matter. There, all Jews are forbidden "to swear by God on a trivial [or base: auAoc;;] matter." Although swearing in other contexts is not actively encouraged, we can imagine that it may be permitted in certain rare and worthy cases. From the context of War 2.135 it seems clear that the issue there is the common oath, to guarantee one's word. The Essenes' evasion of such swearing would not preclude making these solemn, once-in-a-lifetime, awe50me (P1KW0'l1C;;) oaths to God upon finally entering the order. Their first two oaths involve piety toward the Deity and justice toward humanity. We have already observed Josephus's keen awareness that his people, especially after the revolt, are widely accused of impiety (cwe~Etoc) or even atheism in relation to the gods, and misanthropy with respect to fellow human beings (Apion 2.148, 291). One of his most pervasive themes, therefore, running from the beginning to the end of his corpus, is that the Judeans in fact cherish piety toward God and justice and philanthropy toward their neighboursmore than any other nation.
441
JOSEPHUS ABOUT THE ESSENES
These are an epitome of Josephus's portrayal of Judaism: Jews practise EUOep€la toward God and 'teX Oi'Kata toward others. This pair of virtues provides, for example, his most typical characterization of Israel's leaders:
Antiquities 7.338 and 341 (David: God always rewards the pious and just), 356 and 374 (David admonishes Solomon to rule with piety and justice), 384 (David's dying charge to Solomon: be just toward your subjects and pious toward God); 8.280 (Abijah's claim that the just and pious will enjoy military success); 9: 16 (Josaphat enjoyed divine favour because of his justice and piety toward the Deity), 236 (virtuous King Jotham was pious toward God and just toward humanity); 12.43 (Simon the Just was so called because of his piety toward God and benevolence toward humanity), 56 (modifying Arist<£as). According to
Antiquities 18.117, the renowned baptist named John also exhorted Judeans "to practise justice toward one another and piety toward God." By beginning the Essenes' oaths with piety and justice, therefore, and ranking piety above' all (Apion 2.170·71), Josephus makes them ideal representatives of his Judaism, Essenes harm no one. Contrast Josephus's Pharisees, who have a tendency to bring harm to those in power (Ant. 13.401; 17.41). His Essenes hate the unjust and struggle with the just; in the words of
Antiquities 15.135: "God always exhorts us to hate arrogance and injustice." If an Essene should himself take office, he is sworn "never to abuse his authority [IlTloeno'tE e~upp{oEt v Ei~ 'tT)V e~ou(J(av], nor by dress or some other outward extravagance to outshine his subordinates" (War 2.140-41). Note first the accessibility and public-minded spirit of these Essenes: they are not sequestered monks but, living as they do in every city, are quite eligible for public service-also an indispensable quality of the Roman male. According to Josephus's scheme of things, outrage against the divinely sanctioned order is the worst vice, and he uses the verb e~upp((Jw with Ei~ to express such a violation. Several times he refers, precisely as here, (e~upp(ow Ei~)
to
someone's abuse of
power or office (e~ou(J(a orlXPXtl)-War 1.206: young Herod
did not abuse his authority; 4.492: Nero did; Antiquities 14.161: Herod's brother Phasael did not. How one behaved in a position of authority was a major concern for Josephus's self-representation to his Roman readers. Life, which celebrates his character (~eor;, 430), makes an issue of his behaviour when he held great e~ouo(a (80): he repeatedly adduces his clemency toward enemies held at his
442
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
mercy (262-65, 304-308, 377-80), his mildness toward his dependent charges (30-31,97-100, 112-13,417-21), his protection of women's honour (80), and his invulnerability to bribery and corruption of all kinds (79-86). Essenes swear to love truth (-tf]v aAtl6€lOCV eXycmciv) and expose liars (2.141). Josephus's readers should certainly appreciate this reference, for at the very beginning (War 1.30) and end (Apion 2.296) of his literary corpus, he addresses his works precisely to .0\<;; .f]v aAtl6€tCtv ayocnwow. The Essenes represent the best qualities of his readers! Elsewhere, he is always assuring them of his own truthfulness (War 1.4; Ant. 1.6; Ufe 40; Apion 1.6). Essenes "maintain their hands pure from theft and their souls from unholy gain." This rather poetic parallelism captures the spirit ofjosephus's summary of the latter half of the decalogue, which is binding on all Jews, in Antiquities 3.92 (especially !-tf] KAonf] op&v). When Josephus says that Essenes promise "not to conceal anything from the members of the school; not to report anything of theirs to others," this might seem like a sectarian principle. Notice, however, that it corresponds rather precisely to Josephus's view of his entire culture's attitude toward outsiders, as expressed in Against Apion 2.209-10:
It will be seen that [Moses) took the best of all possible measures at once to secure our own customs from corruption, and to throw them open ungrudgingly to any who elect to share them. To all who desire to come and live under the same laws with us, [Moses) gives a gracious welcome .... On the other hand, it was not his pleasure that casual visitors should be admitted to the intimacies of our daily life. Of the three final oaths, briefly mentioned, two are more parochial: to impart (!-tE'tCt Oiow!-t 1)
the school's teachings just as one receives
(I-I.E'tCtACtI-l.P&vw) them, and to keep the integrity (Ol>v."pew) of the school's books and the names of the angels (2.142). Although the precise referents here are sectarian, the scrupulous preservation ofJudean tradition is a major theme elsewhere in Josephus. He normally uses the nocpaO(ow!-t~/1t(XpCtACXI-I.P&VW pair, because he is describing the pure transmission of Judean culture from its Mosaic origin to the present (Ant. 3.280, 286; 4.295, 302, 304; Apion 2.279), whereas the context here is less inter-generational. Nevertheless, we are in the same semantic arena of accurate transmission. The remaining oath, however, "to refrain from banditry" (ATIO.EiCX), may once again touch a major theme in War. It is plausible that this category simply
JOSEPHUS ABOUT THE ESSENES
443
develops another aspect of robbery (KA01t11) from the earlier oath, in which case the life to be avoided by the Essenes was that lived by Cain, who abandoned the simple and virtuous way in favour of TJoov1l and I.no,Efa (Ant.
1.61; d. War 2.125). Yet in that case it is odd that Josephus would have two such similar oaths.
fu is well known, Josephus uses the label of AnOtEta not simply for robbers (though for them too-Horsley 1979), but for the rebels who have brought Judean culture into disrepute through their actions in the recent revolt (Hengel 1989: 41-46; Price 1992: 17-24). A subspecies of bandit is the group of Judean "assassins" with the suspicious Latin name sicarii. These are not ordinary highway bandits, but prominent and named public figures engaged in political struggle, such as Menahem the son of Judas the Galilean, whom Josephus detests (War 2.228-29,232-35,253-54,425,431,434,441; Life 28). John of Gischala, Josephus's aristocratic competitor in Galilee and the "close friend" of Simeon son of Gamaliel I in Jerusalem (Life 192), was also, we are told, a "bandit" (War 2.587,593). Josephus's opponent Jesus is a "bandit chief'
(Life 105). Indeed, "bandit chief' becomes just another name for each of the 1:upavvot who are the thematized villains of War (1.10; 2.275; 7.261, etc.). In Rome, Cicero's conflict with Catiline had long ago enshrined a potent political sense for latTOcinium; the great orator had effectively dismissed both his fellow aristocrat and that man's followers as latrones (Habinek 1998: 69-87). Now Josephus takes a similar tack, quite possibly with the Catilinarian background in mind as an extra-textual resource shared by author and reader. He also has convenient support from the LXX Jeremiah 7.11-"[YJou have made my house a den of Auo,aC'-as a catalyst for his Temple apologetic. At the very least, then, the Essene avoidance of AnatEia fits with Josephus's general emphasis on the virtue of Jewish life. At most, it is a comment on the Essenes' refusal to engage in the political subversion to which he attributes the recent catastrophe in Judea, the subject of his book. Ninth, Josephus credits the Essenes with peerless precision and justice (aKp1.pt01:aw1. Kat OtKaW1.) in the administration of laws (2.145). They praccise a severe discipline, with capital punishment legislated for anyone who reviles either God or the lawgiver Moses. The word "lawgiver" (vollo8t1:TV;) is Josephus's characteristic term for Moses (e.g., Ant. 1.6, 15, 18; Apion 2.156,
161). The extraordinary rank that Josephus implies for Moses, in relation to
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TEXT AND ARTIFAC'T
God, such that defamation of his name amounts to blasphemy, is parallelled in Antiquities 3.317-20. There Josephus speaks of Moses' "super-human force" (imep &v8pumov; 3.318); and, because of his laws, he is esteemed "higher than his [human] nature" (3.320). He surpassed all other people (4.328), and in his words one seemed to hear the very speech of God (4.329). Although Josephus does not divinize Moses, he leaves his special status ambiguous in much the same way that his Essenes do. Josephus further notes that the Essenes' legal decisions are not subject to appeal, and that the Essenes exceed all other Jews in their avoidance of labour on the sabbath (2.147-49). The key language in this section (aKpi~Ew., 01K-) is typically Josephan: he everywhere applauds the most scrupulous precision (aKpi~E1a) in historywriting, truth-telling and legal interpretation. Whereas the Pharisees are only reputed to be the most precise in the laws (War 1.110; 2.162; Life 191), his celebration of the Essenes here has no such qualification. More than that, he is extremely proud of the severity of Jewish law. We are apt to forget this, because the spirit of our time generally favours clemency in law, but Josephus considers it a powerful atrraction of the Judean law code that it leaves no loopholes (Apion 2.276-77), that its justice is sure and swift (2.178) and that in it numerous crimes merit the death penalty (2.214-17). He contrasts this regime to other legal systems. Given the Widespread despair over crime and social deterioration to which Roman authors attest (Catullus, Carm. 64 [end]; Cicero Div. 2.2.4; Juvenal, Sat. 3.268-314, etc.), we can imagine that he expected his readers to be attracted by the inexorable justice of the Judean code. The Essenes embody this attribute perfectly. In taking careful precautions for the trial of cases, the Essenes anticipate Josephus's portrayal of Moses and of himself. One of his first actions as regional commander of Galilee was to appoint a legal council of seventy men and smaller councils of seven in each town for the trial of cases (War 2.571-72; Ufe 79). Tenth, the longest and most sublime section of the Essene passage deals with their view of the soul and afterlife. Although most scholarly discussion has concentrated on the "Jewishness" (or not) of this description in relation to the Scrolls, our question is simply how it fits into Josephus's narrative. On this issue. we should compare the language Josephus uses of the Essenes with that which he uses to express his own views elsewhere:
JOSEPHUS ABOUT THE ESSENES
445
Essenes
Josephus
The body is corruptible (8ctp'ta . . . aWiJct'tct) and its constituent matter (Kctt 'tflv UA'IlV) impermanent. (War 2.154)
All of us have mortal bodies ('ta ... aW)lcx't(( 8 V'll 'tci) composed of perishabLe matter (CK 8cxp'tfjc; UA'IlC;). (War 3.372)
Souls emanate from the ether and become trapped in the prison of the body. (War 2.154)
A soul is a portion of God housed in a body. (War 3.372)
For good souls, after death there is a way beyond the ocean, a place (xwpov) not oppressed by rain or snow or heat. (War 2.155)
Those who die naturally are allotted the holiest heavenly pLace. (xwpov) (\XlaT 3.374)
The souls of the base (CXUACtl<;) after death go to a dungeon filled with endless punishments (n)l(l)plWV a~hctA€(n:'t(l)V). (War 2.155)
The souls of the bad (KCXKWV) meet with never-ending punishment (\Var 2.157)-Josephus editorializing within the Essene passage.
Even though Joseph us's own view seems to have a few differen t nuances, which may also be rhetorical fluctuations, one cannot miss the close conceptual and verbal parallels here, as also with the speech that Josephus crafts for Eleazar at Masada (War 7.343-50). Joseph Sievers has shown that the basic conception of the soul trapped in the body runs deeply throughout Josephus's narrative (Sievers 1998). It is little wonder, then, that at the end of this glowing report Josephus wholeheartedly endorses the Essenes' views: "[T]hey irresistibly draw all those who have once tasted of their wisdom" (War 2.157). Eleventh, Josephus's last general statement about the Essenes in this passage concerns their renowned ability to predict the future (2.159). Some of them profess or undertake to do this, "being fully schooled in holy books, various purifications, and sayings of prophets." It is not simply a spontaneous gift, therefore, but arises from long training. Josephus has already given two instances of Essene prediction (War 1.78; 2.113), and in the former case the . Eooato~ was teaching his art in the Temple court. Amiquities continues this portrayal of Essenc prediction (13.311; 15.371-78; 17.346) as a special skill. Some scholars have sensed differences between Josephus's wording here and his narrative descriptions of Esscne prediction, partly in the interest of establishing
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
underlying sources (Gray 1993: 105·106; Bergmeier 1993: 54-55). But the words of War 2.159 are too few to support such speculations, and it seems pointless to apply theological rigour to a rhetorical historian. Most important, Josephus insists upon his own ability to predict the future with accuracy, and he claims to do so precisely on the basis of his training in the holy books' prophetic statements: "With respect to assessing dreams, he [Josephus, referring to himself] was quite capable of making coherent the ambiguous utterances of the Deity: he knew well the prophetic statements of the holy books, being both a priest himself and a descendant of priests" (War 3.352). In War 6.311 Josephus actually interprets such an "ambiguous" statement from the "holy writings." This is a subject in which Josephus as author is plainly interested (cf. War 3.405)-not one that he would likely pass over in unassimilated sources. In fact, Josephus and the Essenes are the only parties after John Hyrcanus (Ant. 13.299-300) who are credited with accurate prediction in his narratives, though pseudo-prophets abound. As for his language, "holy books" is a common Josephan phrase (War 3.352; Ant. 1.26, 82, 139; 2.347; 3.81, 105; 4.326; 9.28, etc.). The ixyvEia/ixyvEuW group is clearly significant for him (War 1.26; 5.194; 7.264, etc.). This discussion of the Essenes' occult powers invites consideration of the other things about them that Josephus mentions in War 2.136: They have an extraordinary interest in the compositions [or bodies of doctrine, or interpretations: ouv1:ciYl-Lcx1:cx] of the ancients, selecting in particular those that work to the benefit of soul and body [npoc; WcJ>CAElCXV lJruxfje; KCXl. OWI-LCX1:Oe;]. On the basis of these, healthful medicinal roots [pi' CXt 1:E aAE~ Tj1:llPWt] and the properties of stones [A (8wv Hh61:1l1:E<;] are investigated toward the treatment of diseases [1tpo<; 8EPCX1tE(CXV
ncx8wvl.
As Thackeray (following]. B. Lightfoot) already noted, this passage has a close parallel in Antiquities 8.44-49. There Josephus describes one of the most prominent ancients, Solomon, whom he credits with thousands of "compositions" (8.44-45). These recorded his comprehensive study of nature and the various properties (iOiwj.La.a) of each form (8.44). In particular, they described the craft (.ixvTl) of exorcism, "for the benefit and treatment [Ei<; w<\lC}"Etav leal. clEpaltE(av]" of humanity (8.45). Josephus then describes an
actual instance of such 8Epa1tEia (8.46, twice) that he witnessed. It will come
447
JOSEPHUS ABOUT THE ESSENES
as no surprise that the exorcist used a root (piCa) prescrihed by Solomon for the purpose (8.4 7). When we read his closing line-he has described Solomon so that no one under the sun should be ignorant of him (8.49)-we are ready to believe that Solomon was the first Essene! Once again: Josephus describes the Essenes as admirable examples of the traits he claims for himself and for all other exemplary Judeans. Twelfth, if Josephus's account of the Essenes had stopped here, readers would not know that they were missing anything. The account is formally complete, having moved from the Essenes' basic convictions through their organization and special practices to their views of the future. It comes as a great surprise, then, that Josephus now introd uces "a different order" ofEssenes who do marry, though they agree with the others in every other respect (War 2.160-61). Having made such a clear case against marriage in his foregoing picture of the Essenes, he must now give a lengthy justification as
to
why these
Essenes consider marriage acceptable. To be sure, they are still not very keen on the project. Whereas we already learned that Essenes recognize a need for the succession (lhaooXtl, as in 2.121) of humanity, but leave that task to others because of the alleged fickleness of women, Josephus now suddenly declares that these new Essenes use that same succession argument as the basis for their own marriages. Nevertheless, he insists, they take no other pleasure in marriagej they are careful to wed only when their potential wives are proven fertile, and they do not have sex while the wife is pregnant (as he says of all Judeans who would be pure, in Apion 2.202). What should we make of this afterthought! Scholars typically remark that Josephus knows about two kinds of Essenes, the marrying and the celibate, and they use this convenient distinction to match him with 1QS and CD from Qumran. But such a neat claim glosses over the problems presented by Josephus's addendum. First, he does not say clearly and up front that there are two kinds of Essenes. He mainly describes the very impressive celibate group, and then throws in this "different order" as an afterthought. If he had considered this group at the outset, rhetorical clarity demands that he should have identified the two groups then, just as he names the three schools clearly (2.119), even though he comes to Pharisees and Sadducees only after a long wait (2.162). When Josephus was describing the Essene practice of adopting
448
TEXT AND ARTIFACf
others' children because they did not produce their own, he should have mentioned this second group ofEssenes ifhe had known of them. Moreover, the internal logic of this afterthought is puzzling. How can these Essenes say that the whole race would die out if they were celibate (2.160), when the standard Essenes have already dealt with that problem by their practice of adoption? Obviously, the whole world is not Essene. And what has become of the standard Essenes' utter mistrust of women (2.120), which meshed together with their other virtues in Josephus's eyes? Next, one cannot miss Josephus's defensive, justifying tone in the afterthought: although they marry, they still regard women the same way-they are not soft! Finally, Philo and Pliny are as emphatic as the earlier and later Josephus (Ant. 18.21) in separating Essenes from marriage: "[Nlo Essene
. " marnes. Bergmeier (1993: 68) assumes that the marrying Essenes come from yet another source. But the unity of language between War 2.119-59 and 2.160, and between the footnote in 2.160 and Josephus's outlook elsewhere, prevents us from charging through that handy escape route. And as we have seen, such solutions do not solve the main problem of the author's inconsistency. The most sensible solution. it seems to me, is that Josephus invented the marrying kind of Essenes out of whole cloth. He invents quite a bit of his narrative-in some sense, all of it-and so it should not shock us if he did so here. Why he would invent marrying Essenes is explainable. By his glowing description of these exemplary Judeans and by his affectionate editorial asides he has implied his own affinity with the group. Near the end of the passage he has admitted their irresistible appeal (2.158); clearly, they are kindred spirits. But his implied connection with these celibate Essenes raises an obvious problem. since he has been married several times and fathered children-this, although he is as strong a misogynist, as tough a man, as anyone else. No doubt his immediate readerslhearers in Rome would know these things about his personal life. By adducing a different order of Essenes, who are precisely like the others except that they are willing to marry under certain strictly controlled conditions, he provides himself with a means of both leaving open the possibility of his own Essene affiliation and extending their influence well beyond the limits of the celibate colonies throughout the towns.
JOSEPHUS ABOUT THE ESSENES
449
4. Conclusion and Corollaries Throughout his portrayal of Judean culture, Josephus gives some reason to think that its most perfect embodiment is to be found in Josephus himself (War 2-3 i Life). He also mentions other towering examples ofJ ewish virtue, however, such as Abraham, Moses, Solomon and Daniel. But the group that best represents Judean ideals and lifestyle is that of the renowned' EooTJvoC They capture more perfectly than others the dignity, self-control, simplicity, peacefulness, loyalty, piety, justice, purity, honesty, hospitality, diligence, courage and frugality that all Judeans prize. Happily, Romans value these things too! The Essenes of War 2 serve, in obvious and important ways, the peaceful, anti-apocalyptic agenda of the Judean War, inasmuch as they embrace Roman (or any) rule as divinely appointed. Josephus hopes to show that his people are more than merely good world citizens: they are the living fulfilment of Roman society's fondest aspirations. In addition to that, they possess in high concentration, they are the home of, those admired occult powers (prediction, exorcism, cures) to which all Judeans are legitimate heirs. The foregoing study in no way attempts to say anything about the historical Essenes. It is an effort to understand Josephus's Essenes in their literary context. But this effort is also a necessary prolegomenon to historical reconstruction, since history requires crafting the hypothesis that most convincingly explains the evidence. I am offering a rough, beginning account of what some of the critical evidence means in situ. Although I conclude, then, still looking forward to some responsible historical reasoning, I can spell out certain preliminary historical considerations from this study. First, because Josephus is the author of War 2.119-61, the scholarly weekend sport of excising it from his narrative and attributing it bodily to some unknown author, as if Josephus had nothing to do with it, should cease forthwith. Although he may have used a source or two for the Essenes, the War 2 passage in its current configuration is his. Second, if my proposal about the marrying Essenes is correct, they are an empty category for historical reconstruction. There may have been marrying Essenes, but if there were, I do not think that Josephus knew about them-or they would not appear as such an afterthought. I suggest that, as far as he knows, he made them up as a device to broaden their representative character to include people such as himself. This proposal seems the most adequate way
450
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of explaining the facts of the narrative. At the very least, I would urge those who use Josephus's Essenes to exercise caution in placing any weight on the marrying kind. Third, when we proceed to the historical question "Who were the Essenes?" we must first deal with the fact that they commended themselves to Josephus as the most obvious group (more than, say, Pharisees or Sadducees) for him to offer to the Romans as a shining example of his culture, and indeed of his own world view. Remarkably, they had also commended themselves to Philo a generation earlier, in much the same way and for much the same reasons. And this was the only group that crossed Pliny's horizon when he described Judea for his armchair tourists (although he perhaps did not think that the Essenes were 'Iouoaio\). All of this evidence about the Essenes needs to be explained when we venture a historical hypothesis about them. How did these somewhat different ancient authors come to their warmly supportive views? Fourth, I do not understand why the group or groups behind the Dead Sea Scrolls impress so many scholars as eligible for Essene identification, Read by themselves, the sectarian Scrolls from Qumran produce a fairly clear picture of what William James would call a world-denying group, practising the religion of the "sick soul" or the "twice-born." Any survey of their central convictionsFlusser (1989), Vermes (1995), VanderKam (1994), Garda Martinez (1996}-turns up more or less the same points. They embrace rather sharp cosmic, anthropological and temporal dualisms. They are a small, righteous remnant who consider themselves in opposition to a main stream-the wicked and the "seekers after smooth things," among others-presumably including such a comfortable Temple aristocrat as Josephus. Apocalyptically minded, if any group ever was, they eagerly anticipate the end of the present order, which is dominated by the wicked powers in Judea and abroad, in a decisive cosmic battle. Schooled in the ordinances of their Righteous Teacher, they now await the two anointed leaders ("messiahs") who will lead the vindication of their cause. They interpret scripture characteristically with pesharim, to speak of themselves as the end-time community. It is hard to imagine a less likely group for Esscne identification, even if its members too have long initiations, eat meals together and share things, bathe daily, require that one does not spit at the group, and that sort of thing. It is hard to imagine, that is, how such a group as the one reflected in the Dead Sea
JOSEPHUS ABOUT THE EsSENES
451
Scrolls could have commended itself first to Philo and then to Josephus as the best illustration of their world-affirming, once-born, Rome-friendly, moralphilosophical and anti-apocalyptic presentations. Without really explaining Josephus's Essenes, scholars who hold to the Qumran-Essene hypothesis commonly assert either (a) that Josephus plagiarized War 2.119-61 without understanding or bothering to correct it, or (b) that he did the opposite: he bent the story entirely out of shape, suppressing the uncomfortable parts, to serve his (never articulated) "agenda." But (a) is impossible, and not in the rhetorical sense of that word (i.e., "I disagree with it"), but in the same sense that it is impossible to spin gold out of wheat germ. And (b) simply avoids the problem. For if Josephus had to undertake such radical surgery that he effectively re-created the group as something else entirely, why did he bother using it in the first place? And why did Philo do so as well? These are not convincing explanations ofJosephus's Essenes, to say the least, and any hypothesis that uses such arguments is implausible. Better arguments will need to be found. Fifth, what about Pliny's famous notice about a solitary tribe of Essenes near the Dead Sea! Since this is often cited as if it were decisive proof of the Qumran-Essene hypothesis (Cross 1961: 70; Albright and Mann 1969: 11-13), I should like to insist that it cannot. logically be used t.hat way. We need to think clearly about this. First, Pliny does not necessarily know what he is talking about concerning Judean geography. The Judean section of his Natural History is a farrago of outright errors and half-truths. Even if for some reason we gave him the benefit of the doubt in the Essene case, we still would not know what he meant. This is the essential point. No one could have identified Qumran on the basis of Pliny's notice alone (cf. Goodman 1995: 165). He does not mention Qumran, and there are plenty of reasons to imagine that he describes a different part of the desert. Before the DSS were discovered, scholars thought that he was describing a place in the vicinity of En Gedi (Bauer 1924: 390). Therefore, the iden tification of Qumran as Pliny's referent depends upon the Qumran-Essene hypothesis. I would grant that, if the theory were established on other grounds, one could conceivably bend Pliny to fit it, with generous allowance for most of his assertions ("a unique tribe," "palm trees," "away from the coast," above En Gedi, "without women," "thousands of centuries," replenished by world-weary throngs), but
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
his description is obviously not independent evidence for the Qumran-Essene theory. Since Pliny's description can only be linked with Qumran as a result of the Qumran-Essene theory, to summon it also as a basis for the theory is to make a fully circular argument. I do not imagine that what I have presented is the final word on Josephus's Essenes. To the contrary, I hope that I have opened a new line of questioning, even if my own observations are subject to much qualification. In part, my hope is that this orientation will prod those who wish to think historically about the Essenes to deal with some of the critical evidence that needs explaining by any hypothesis.
JOSEPHUS ABOUT THE ESSENES
453
References
Albright, William Foxwell and C. S. Mann 1969 "Qumran and the Essenes: Geography, Chronology, and Identification of the Sect." In Matthew Black and William Foxwell Albright (eds.), The Scrolls and Christianity: Historical and Theological Sign.ificance, 11-25. London: S.P.C.K. Bauer, Walter "Essener." In Georg Wissowa (ed.), Paulys Realencyclopadie der 1924 classischen Altertumswissenschaft, Supplementband 4, cols. 385-430. Stuttgart: A. Druckenmiiller Beall, Todd S. Josephus' Description of the Essenes T!lustrated by the Dead Sea Scrolls. 1988 Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bergmeier, Roland 1993 Die Essener-Berichte des Flavius Josephus: Quellenstudien zu den Essenertexten im Werk des judischen Historiographen. Kampen: Kok Pharos. Bilde, Per "The Causes of the Jewish War According to Josephus." Journal for 1979 the Study of Judaism 10: 179-202. Cross, Frank Moore 1961 The Ancient Library of Qumran and Modem Biblical Studies. New York: Doubleday. Feldman, Louis H. 1998 Studies in Josephus' Rewritten Bible. Leiden: Brill. Flusser, David 1989 The Spiritual History of the Dead Sea Sect. Tel Aviv: MOD. Garda Martfnez, Florentino 1996 [1992] The Dead Sea Scrolls Translated: The Qumran Texts in English. Trans. Wilfred G. E. Watson. Second English ed. [First cd. 1994]. Leiden/Grand Rapids: Brill/Eerdmans. Goodman, Martin "A Note on the Qumran Sectarians, the Essenes and Josephus." 1995 Journal of Jewish Studies 46: 161-66. Gray, Rebecca 1993 Prophetic Figures in Late Second TempleJewish Palestine: The Evidence from Josephus. New York: Oxford University Press. Habinek, Thomas N. 1998 The Politics of Latin Literature: Writing, Identity, and Empire in Ancient Rome. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
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Hecht, Richard D. 1987 "Philo and Messiah." In Jacob Neusner, William Scott Green and Ernest S. Frerichs (eds.), Judaisms and Their Messiahs at the Tum of the Christian Era, 139-68. New York/Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hengel, Martin 1989 [1976] The Zealots: Investigations into the Jewish Freedom Movement in the Period from Herod I Until 70 A.D. Trans. David Smith. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. Horsley, Richard A. 1979 "Josephus and the Bandits." Journal forthe Study ofJudaism 10: 37-63. James, William 1928 The Varieties of Religious Experience: A .study in Human Nature. London: Longmans, Green, and Co. Mason, Steve "Josephus, Daniel, and the Flavian House." In Parente and Sievers, 1994
Josephus and the History of the Graeco-Roman Period, 161-91. 1998a
1998b
"An Essay in Character: The Aim and Audience ofJosephus's Vita." In Folker Siegert and ]Orgen Kalms (eds.), Internationales JosephusKolloquium Munster 1997, 31-77. MOnster: LIT. "'Should Any Wish to Enquire Further' (Ant. 1.25): The Aim and Audience of] osephus's Judean Antiquities/Life." In Steve Mason (ed.), UnderstandingJosephus: Seven Perspectives, 64-103. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press.
May, James M.
1988
Trials of Character: The Eloquence of Ciceronian Ethos. Chapel Hill:
University of North Carolina Press. Parente, Fausto and Joseph Sievers, eds.
1994
Josephus and the History of the Graeco-Roman Period: Essays in Memory of Morton Smith. Leiden: Brill.
Price, Jonathan T.
1992
Jerusalem under Siege: The Collapse of the Jewish State. 66-70
C.E.
Leiden: Brill. Rajak, Tessa 1983
1994
1998
Josephus. the Historian and His Society. London: Duckworth. "Cia Chc Flavia Giuseppe Vide: Josephus and the Essenes." In Parente and Sievers, Josephus and the History of the Graeco-Roman Period,141-60. "The Against Apio)) and the Continuities in Josephus's Political Thought." In Mason, Understanding Josephus, 222-46.
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Schalit, Abraham
1968 Namenworterbuch zu Flavius Josephus. Leiden: Brill. Sievers, Joseph 1998 "Josephus and the Afterlife." In Mason, Understanding Josephus, 2031. Stegemann, Hartmut "The Qumran Essenes-Local Members of the Main Jewish Union 1992 in Late Second Temple Times." In Julio Trebolle Barrerra and Luis Vegas Montaner (eds.), The Madrid Qumran Congress: Proceedings of the International Congress on the Dead Sea SeroUs, Madrid 18-21 March 1991, 83-166. Leiden: Brill. Thackeray, H. St. John 1967 [1929] Josephus: The Man and the Historian. New York: Ktav. VanJerKam, James C. 1994 The Dead Sea Scrolls Today. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Vermes, Geza 1995 The Dead Sea Scrolls in English. Fourth ed. London: Penguin.
26
THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL ARTIFACTS OF MASADA AND THE CREDIBILITY OF JOSEPHUS WiLLI.Au\1 KLASSEN
The best way to see Masada is to walk the steep "snake path" before dawn and watch the sun rise over the hills of Moab. As I joined a group of students from the University of Toronto up the desert incline in JuIy 1999, I could not help but reflect on the reasons why the story of Masada moves so many people so deeply. One can easily imagine being a slave of King Herod carrying a lamb or calf up the mountain for a royal banquet. One can even imagine oneself as a Jewish Zealot during the fateful last siege of Masada in 73 CE watching from above as Roman soldiers moved into position to make the final assault. But what intrigues me most is the dramatic end of the first Jewish revolt against Rome. The revolt had been going on at least since the year 66; during Passover of the year 73 it was drawing to a tragic conclusion. The artifacts discovered at Masada in the years 1963-66 urgently need to be brought to bear on the evidence provided by the texts of Josephus. Given the opportunities I have had at Masada to discuss with Peter Richardson the relationship of realia to the written record of Josephus, it seems only appropriate to explore the topic in this volume honouring a dear friend and colleague. I intend in this essay to describe some aspects of Josephus's role as a historian, and then raise two questions; When did Masada fall? How did the Zealots on Masada die? What people die for, the reasons they are killed and who keeps the story alive are important clues to what is going on in a society. No reminder is needed that issues are much more complex when suicide is involved. Since virtually all clues come from Josephus, attention will also be paid to what motivated Josephus to write and how well he adhered to his own standards of historiography. I make no claim to have covered all the research,
ARTIFACTS OF MASADA
457
nor indeed even to have touched on the most important treatments. At the same time the issues addressed here are significant and deserve more attention. The comprehensive assessment of scholarly research on Masada so carefully made by Louis Feldman lists seventy-nine individual items which are part of the archaeological and historical writing that has been carried on since 1943 (Feldman 1975: 218-48). An analysis of this material indicates the following characteristics. First, the highest degree of interest in Masada has centred not on the archaeological and historical realia but on the significance of Masada for modern Judaism, especially for the current Israeli "politics of survival." We owe this interest in large part to Yigael Yadin. Yadin's shift from archaeology to politics in later life may have been good for the political maturing ofIsrael but it did not speed up our ability to assess the artifacts from Masada (Feldman 1984). Neil Silberman (1994), in trying to do justice to several of these aspects ofYadin's life, concludes that his deep interest in war and military aspects of history influenced both his nationalistic agenda and his archaeological foci. Yadin said: "[Olne of the most amazing, heroic, alas tragic episodes in [the struggle of the Jewish people for their spiritual independence] is no doubt the story of Mas ada." Masada is therefore "not just another archaeological site; for many of us it is a sort of mausoleum of the nation's martyrs." His dig there he describes as "the greatest experience" of his life, and he sees Masada as having a heroic, Herodian facet. 1 Second, much of the writing on Masada has been accessible only to people who read modern Hebrew. Third, although Yadin's excavations took place from 1963 to 1965, critical archaeological presentations of the discoveries did not begin to appear until 1989 (Netzer1989-94). Fourth, more recently scholars have shown interest in the critical issues raised by Josephus's account of the fall of Masada, in light of the discoveries that bear on it. The work of Shaye Cohen on the credibility of Josephus is of particular importance. He has become an established authority on Josephus (Cohen 1979), and has pursued the topic of Masada in an essay to honour
Forum address, May 4, 1976, Brigham Young Universityi now published in Hall and Welch (1997: 17-20).
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Yigael Yadin (Cohen 1982).2 Steve Mason's work on Josephus (199l; 1992) has now also become a starting point. With respect to the role that M asada has played in modern Israel, the work of Nachman Ben-Yehuda (1 995)-although still ignored 3-is extremely important from a historical, sociological perspective. Fifth, a blanket of silence has fallen upon the Masada event with respect to its relations to the early Christian movement. It is worth noting that Josephus wrote about the time the Apocalypse of John was composed. Both were opposed to rebellion against Rome. Given the lack of interest among the first-century Jews about Masada, it is perhaps not surprising that Christian sources never allude to this event. In any case, it would not have served the cause of Christians, or Jews for that matter, to make much of it in their relations with Rome. Given the attraction the Zealot movement had for Jesus (Klassen 1999), it stands to reason that those who defected from Jesus or from the Jesus movement may have returned to or been attracted to the Zealots, who took their last stand at Masada, and could well have joined them for their last engagement. The main interest of writers on Masada has focussed on the place that the epic has had in the resurgence of a Jewish state. This essay does not enter into that debate, out of respect for the right of the state-builders themselves to
address that issue. Feldman notes that "Yadin's dig did receive tremendous coverage in the general press, exhibits of some of his findings were held in various major cities in the United States, and ... Masada itself has now become ... one of the leading tourist attractions of Israel" (Feldman 1984: 223).
1. Josephus as a Historian The popularity of Mas ada as a shrine makes the task of sorting fact from fiction in the Masada account more difficult and more pressing. Of primary urgency has always been the need to publish the Masada findings in a scholarly forum so that scholars can have access
to
the wealth of materials discovered there.
The archaeological treasures no longer lie buried on top of the mountain, but
2 For a sharp critique of Cohen's work see Ladouceur (1980; 1987: 106-109). 3 For a critique see Green (1997: 403-24).
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459
rest now in the basement of the archaeological building on the Mount Scopus campus of the Hebrew University, where they finally have been catalogued, analyzed and made available to the scholarly world. In the past thirty years we have been given a skilful description of the archaeological work itself, but apart from the publication of the Ben Sira scroll, there has been little else of substance. This scroll is apparently the oldest text in Hebrew and the most dependable Hebrew text of part of this book (39:27-44: 17). It was most likely seen as canonical by the people at Masada (Yadin 1965). The mass of other materials has awaited painstaking analysis for more than three decades, not without complaint (Shanks 1986). In the meantime, the surprising recent public admission that porcine bones were found among the skeletal remains of what were considered Jewish martyrs raises a host of questions that will need to be researched (Zias 1998; see also his note in Netzer 4.366,67). The tension between the realia and the written record ofjosephus remains unresolved. On the one hand, Yadin often argued that the report of Josephus on what happened at Masada was exact and was confirmed by his own archaeological results. With respect to Josephus, Yadin concluded that he was a "miserable Jew" but a "brilliant historian" (Yadin 1975: 18), or a "brilliant historian and [an] unfortunate Jew" (Yadin 1966: 15). Yadin rates Josephus's description of Masada as "the best because of his guilty conscience" (Yadin
1966: 18; see also Rajak 1983; Newell 1982). Feldman suggests that it was this contention that "has given rise to the greatest controversy with regard to Masada" (Feldman 1984: 768). The overall question of the reliability of Josephus as a historian is now front and centre. His credibility affects our understanding of what happened at Masada, and of critical aspects of Judaism and its relation to Christianity in the years after 75 CEo The extensive list of conflicts between the account of Josephus and the realia need not be rehearsed here since Cohen (1982: 397) lists the "inventions and embellishments" in detail. Ben-Yehuda (1995: 32527), for instance, lists seven issues where Josephus "may have a credibility problem." I presume that Josephus is relatively reliable when he discusses weather, climate, topography, geography, and such matters as the Roman siege works, the external features of water supply, storehouses and palaces (although he appears to have missed the largest one, the Western Palace at Masada).
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Nowhere in antiquity will you find such a detailed description of how the Roman army was paid as in War 5.348-55 (Feldman 1998: 127-28). He is, however, suspect whenever he deals with numbers: the number of Jewish resisters killed at Masada, and of the Roman soldiers involved, the number of people on the mountain top or the length of time involved in the siege. One also questions the reasons he gives for why Masada feU in the way that it did.
In some areas we are dealing with relatively hard data; in other areas it will be necessary to draw reasonable conclusions on the basis of available information. Fortunately, with the publication of Josephus's writings in various excellent editions, the completion of a concordance of his works and several excellent studies of various aspects of his historiography (e.g., Mason 1991; 1992), we may now observe his biases more clearly. Josephus deserves a careful and attentive reading. With respect to his description of the Jewish Zealots on the mountain, it is especially to be noted that he never describes their death, as virtually all modern writers do, as "mass suicide" or "collective suicide." That is what happened apparently at Jonestown, it happened at Gamla, but nowhere does Josephus leave that impression about Masada. Sharp differences have emerged on the relative debt Josephus owes to Judaism and to the Greek classical tradition (Ladouceur 1980). Earlier work (Morel 1926) offers a comparison of materials from the classical writers and Josephus, but does not make the detailed analysis of similarities that Ladouceur presents. To what extent was Josephus playing to his audience and patrons? When David Rhoads indicates that "much of this episode may be a fabrication by Josephus" (1976: 16) he leaves us with a formidable task: How much of it! Can we discern the theology and psychology that determined the direction of the fabrication? Since for many events, including Masada, Josephus is our only source, we are left with attempting to trace his biases. It is probably safe to assume that, on the whole, he is bound to present himself in a better light than is deserved, that at times he speaks with a "forked tongue," gives matters a "damaging spin" or "grossly exaggerates" (Richardson 1996: 225, 108, 233). But did he also fabricate whole stories like the Masada and Yodefat incidents? Not likely. In the tribute written to honour Yadin just before his death, Shaye Cohen stated that "Professor Yadin's claim that his archaeological discoveries
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vindicate the Josephan account still awaits detailed discussion." He further demonstrated that "Masada is not unique .... Ancient history provides many examples of a besieged city or fortress whose inhabitants (men, women and children) preferred death to surrender or capture" (1982: 386). Cohen assembled sixteen such accounts and arranged them chronologically, excluding all suicides and murder-suicides, which he felt approximate only one side of the Masada story. Helga Lindner has shown that in Josephus's description of the fall of Jerusalem it is the literary form of the lament, used by the biblical prophets, that forms the starting point of the narrative of Josephus. "The power of this lament is broken by the fact that Josephus will not humble himself with his people and recognize the guilt he shares with them. His domicile in Rome masks more than external distance to his home in Palestine" (1972: 134-36, 150). Josephus himself was quite aware that "the laws of history compel one to restrain even one's emotions, since this is not the place for personal lamentations but for a narrative of events" (War 5.20), as he put it when describing the fall of Jerusalem. Lucian's analogy that the historian, like Zeus, looks down upon events in dispassionate objectivity, with equal sympathy for victor and vanquished (Lindner 1972: 134), is one that Josephus could have accepted. In fact he operated with such Hellenistic standards of historical reporting. In the proem he acknowledges his "lament" and seeks to reconcile it with Hellenistic theory. Neither flattery of the Romans nor hatred of the Jews (War 1.2), he notes, distorts his writing; rather, he seeks to record the acts of both parties 1lE't' aKplpE(a~. A glance at the concordance indicates how often Josephus pays at least lip-service to "historical accuracy." In matters of history, "veracity and laborious collection of the facts are essential" (War 1.16). Since the Greeks disregarded historical truth, he claims, all the more reason it should be held in honour among the Romans and the Jews. He "has concealed nothing, added nothing to the facts which have been brought to light" (1.26). He is convinced that since he participated in the events he is qualified to write about them, and since he knows that others who were there will read him he will give even greater heed to his goal: "[M] y work is written for lovers of truth and not to gratify my readers" (1.30). His own countrymen and countrywomen far away were acquainted with the origins of the war, but Greeks
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and Romans needed an accurate account, for "I thought it monstrous ... to allow the truth in affairs of such moment to go astray" (1.6). Even his own tribulations he recounts because many of his readers know about them and presumably can vouch for their accuracy (War 1.22). Thus he desires to tell the truth, but the truth he has to tell is painful (War 1.12): [Flor it has happened that our city which prospered like none other under the rule of Rome has been cast down into the lowest of misfortune. No greater misfortune has ever come upon anyone. The blame for this rests not on any foreigner; thus it is impossible to control the lament. If you as judge are unable to sympathize, then ascribe the events to the historian, the lament to the writer. At the end of War he prides himself on having aimed at presenting that history "with perfect accuracy," and, although the style may leave something to be desired, "I would not hesitate boldly to assert that, throughout the narrative, this [truth] has been my single aim" (War 7.454-55). In that context one needs to remember that Josephus is our only source on Masada, which is otherwise virtually invisible in Jewish sources during the twenty centuries after Masada when Judaism survived without a state or an army. Other evidence, mainly archaeological, casts light on various aspects of Masada, illuminating aspects of the account by Josephus.
2. The Date of the Fall of Masada New light has been cast recently on the length of the siege and the date of the fall of Masada. In his dissertation on the senators between the time of Vespasian and that of Hadrian, Werner Eck has drawn a number of important conclusions from discoveries in the 1950s (1970: 93-111). He studied, along with others, the Roman senator Silva, the legate to whom was assigned the task of conquering Masada. Eck worked with the two nearly identical inscriptions found in 1957 by the amphitheatre at Urbs Salvia, Flavius Silva's home town (Caracen 1958: 86-95). It appears that Silva was a wealthy man and that he owned much land there. Not earlier than the year 81, he built an amphitheatre at personal cost in his name, the name of his mother and that of his wife. At its dedication forty pairs of gladiators appeared with their weapons.
463
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From the dates on the inscriptions, Eck concluded that we must revise the dates and length of the siege at Masada. According to Yadin, Masada was conquered in mid-April of the year 73 CE: he has Silva marching on Masada in the year 72 CE, and dates the fall of Masada to the spring of 73 CE (Yadin 1966). According to Eck, however, Silva did not go to Judea before March of 73 CEj thus the fall of Masada would need to be dated 74 CEo In his view, archaeological finds in Italy have proven Josephus to be in error (Eck 1969). This reading of the evidence has been accepted by the standard handbook, the new Schurer (1973: 1.512 n.139), and by Cohen. There are, however, serious challenges to this approach by two classical scholars (Bowersock 1975; Jones 1973), who point out that although Josephus does not provide an exact date he has the sequence right in that he dates the fall of Mas ada shortly after the death of Lupus, prefect of Egypt (spring 73 CE). They also believe that the coins discovered in the Roman siege camps at Masada, since they terminate with the year 72/73 CE, confirm the conclusion that "Josephus knew what he was talking about" (Bowersock 1975: 183). Josephus gives us the month of Masada's demise but not the year. If Silva went to Judea in March of 72 CE, and we allow a few months for him to assemble 10,000 troops and 15,000 slaves in the area of Mas ada, we would date the beginning of the siege to the fall of the year 72 CEo Masada would then have fallen in the spring of73 CEo Bowersock concludes: "Josephus, guaranteed by the numismatic evidence, is the proper control in this matter. Let us admit that Masada did indeed fall in spring of A.D. 73." If we follow Bowersock, the veracity of Josephus is confirmed and appears
to
support the high premium
Josephus placed on the truth. We would date the siege as beginning in
n CE
and ending in April of 73 CE, a period of about nine months. Could the Roman army with a company of slaves have built the ramp in that period? They would certainly have found it difficult to do much before October given the heat of that region, but they built the ramp on a considerable spur and so could have completed the task in that amount of time. Certainly the Romans would have wished to keep the siege as short as possible. They would have needed thousands of gallons of water per day, presumably brought in daily from En Gedi. If on the other hand the date of 73-74 CE is correct, why did the Romans wait fOf nearly three years between the fall ofJerusalem and theif conquest of Masada? Perhaps because Masada posed no serious threat to them. To be sure
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it was a nuisance to have the sicarii continue their marauding attacks upon the Jews, and their own people in the area (on Passover 72 CE, according to Josephus, they killed 700 women and children at En Gedi) j in the end, however, their continuing presence at Masada could no longer be tolerated. Yadin's conclusion (1966) makes sense: It was the tragic deed of the Zealots in Passover 72 which turns Masada into Masada. The continuing existence of a terrorist cell of Zealots at Masada must have galled Rome with the reminder that not all the vestiges of the Jewish revolt had been crushed. The time span between the fall ofJerusalem and the conquest of Mas ada allows for the possibility that many Zealots would have travelled there to make their final stand against Rome. It is doubtful that 960 Zealots came as early as 66 CE to occupy the mountain, although some certainly did. Most likely 600 Zealots left Masada for Egypt before the siege began. By the time Flavius Silva arrived, there were probably no fewer than 100 Zealots on Masada, and certainly no more than 300. In this case, then, we are fortunate in having archaeological data that bear on the question of the length of the siege. There is, however, currently no agreement on whether the siege ended in 73 or 74 CEo Nevertheless, it is incorrect to assume a long siege of three to four years, as Ben-Yehuda does (1998: 32). His earlier conclusion, "that the siege ... was a matter of just a few months" (1995: 328 n.2l), is to be preferred. 3. The Death of the Zealots Much has been made of the so-called suicides at Masada. In many writings it is just assumed that we are dealing here with what Yadin called mass suicide. One author (Spong 1996) even suggests that if we "read the Bible with Jewish eyes" we will see that the suicides of Masada became an ingredient in Matthew's account of the suicide of] udas. John Spong writes: "Suicide was also freshly in the mind of Matthew, for Jewish resistance to the Roman army had ended in mass suicides of the final Jewish soldiers at Masada" (1996: 270). Never mind that there were no "Jewish soldiers" at Masada and that, according to Josephus,
each head of a family killed his own and then drew lots until the
last person remained before he, the last remaining Zealot, committed the one act of suicide. I submit that Matthew would hardly have been influenced by the one suicide of a terrorist. Did he even know about it?
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If we read Josephus carefully on this point he makes it quite clear how the deaths actually were carried out. The heads of all the families killed their wives and children, then lay down with their families and awaited the time when a group of ten executioners chosen by lot would come by. There was no mass suicide but rather parricide and execution. There was only one suicide. There may be a link between the description of Josephus and the ritual slaughter connected with Passover. The use of the terms oa( w, oanw and ouYll points in that direction, as does the selection of ten men (cf. Ruth 4:2). The fall of Masada also took place on Passover night. 4 According to this story, Masada offers a striking case of the killing of the members of a person's immediate family rather than allowing them to go into slavery. The Jewish law that is invoked here is not clear, but since Josephus makes explicit reference to the law in the speech of Eleazar, it is certainly possible that he or maybe even the Zealots were thinking in terms of such passages as Deuteronomy 13:6-11, which specifically says that there are conditions under which you must kill your brother, the son of your mother, your son, your daughter, your wife and so forth, when they lead you away from serving God toward worshipping other gods. Is it possible that the atonement Eleazar asks them to make by this slaughter is for the sin of their original revolt against Rome, which cost the people so very much? The model upon which Zealot theology is based is Phineas, whose act of zeal in killing Zimri and the Mideonite woman (Numbers 25), while not a sibling murder or even the murder of a relative, sanctions the act of murder in establishing the covenant of peace (Num 25: 11). There are cases of suicide described in Jewish history. Second Maccabees 14:37-46 mentions the death of Razis, who preferred suicide to arrest by Seleucid soldiers. Josephus himself reports numerous other parricides and
4 Josephus uses these Greek terms more than seventy-five times. The action of the sicarii against the pacifist Essenes in En Gedi on Passover may have been an act of vengeance (Bauernfeind and Michel 1967: 271- 72). A sharper distinction needs to be made between suicide and martyrdom among the Zealots. Hengel (1989) has a superb treatment of martyrdom among the Zealots but confuses "mass suicide" (263) with what Josephus describes: "There were al together 960 people who killed each other" (264, emphasis added). The illustrations that Hengel gives all deal with suicide and not with ritual slaying. What needs to be addressed are the questions: Under what conditions would aJewish father slay his family! What could possibly persuade a Torah-observant Jew to allow him- or herself to be slaughtered by someone married to him or her?
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suicides. The cave-dwelling brigands at Arbela in Galilee were surrounded by Herod's men. Among them was an old man who killed his seven children, his wife and himself rather than surrender to Herod's troops (War 1.312-13; Ant. 14.429-30). A mass suicide is obviously depicted in the description of the siege of Oamla in the Oolan, where Josephus says that more than 5,000 plunged headlong to their deaths with their wives and children when Roman soldiers breached their defences. Only two women survived (War 4. 79-81). In addition, Josephus says that when the Temple burned two distinguished men plunged into the flames rather than surrender to the Romans (War 6.280). Dio Cassius
(Epit. 66.6.3) reports that some of the defenders of the Temple leapt into the flames while others threw themselves on the Romans, and still others simply killed each other. Another striking parallel is that of Simon of Beth Shean, who is described as a swashbuckling young Jew who with others had sided with the non-Jewish residents of Beth Shean until 13,000 Jews were slaughtered one night. Simon carne from a prominent family but had himself slaughtered many Jews. When the tide turned Simon drew his sword-then, instead of rushing upon one of the enemy, whose numbers appeared to be endless, he exclaimed in a tone of deep emotion: Justly am I punished.... I and all who by such a slaughter of our kinsmen have sealed our loyalty to you. Ah! well, let us who have but naturally experienced the perfidy of foreigners, us who have been guilty of the last degree of impiety towards our own people .... [L]et us die, as cursed wretches, by our own hands for it is not fitting that we die at the hands of our enemies. This, God grant, shall be at once the fit retribution for my foul crime and testimony to my courage, that none of my foes shall be able to boast of having slain me or glory over my prostrate body. After speaking these words Simon glanced with pity and rage toward his family, his wife, children and aged parents. Then seizing his father by his grey hair, he ran his sword through his body, killed his mother, who offered no resistance, his wife and children, each victim almost rushing upon the blade, in haste to precede the enemy. After slaying every member of his family, he stood conspicuous on the corpses and, with right hand uplifted to attract all eyes, plunged the sword up to the hilt into his own throat. "The youth perished, who
ARTIFACTS OF MASADA
467
on the one hand deserved pity because of his strength of body and fortitude of soul, but on the other hand by reason of his trust in aliens met his just reward" (War 2.466-76; see Droge and Tabor 1992; 91). The most fascinating parallel, however, is the mutual suicide pact at Yodefat (War 3.390), where Josephus describes his own decision to abandon the process. After he and a companion drew the last two lots, the two decided they would not finish the bloody act and turned themselves over to the Romans instead-after having killed thirty-eight out of the forty.s This incident is important because it has been used to provide a clue to events at Masada by the most persistent critic of the historical accuracy of the Masada account, Trude \Veiss-Rosmarin, the redoubtable editor of the Jewish SjJectator. From
1967 to 1981, without benefit of technical scholarship, she
persistently asked questions that go to the heart of the matter. Feldman's survey (1975) presents ten pages of answers to her questions as well as the arguments themselves. Surely the most important unresolved question Weiss-Rosmarin raised is how 960 people could be persuaded that to surrender to the Romans would be more terrible than "death at their own hands." Torrey Seland's study on vigilantism (1995: 125-31, 170-71) discusses the "punishing agents" in Philo and notes that this writer is enamoured by the Levites, who began by killing their nearest and dearest, acknowledging no love or kinship but God's love (Mos. 2: 170-72.270-73). Could such thinking have been part of the slaughter at Masada? Modern tourist manuals certainly suggest that it was. So Cornfeld writes: "They sentenced themselves to a clean death rather than a life of ignoble slavery .... The only alternative was honourable death" (1973: 18, 23). Josephus would have us believe that the speeches he wrote and placed in the mouth of Eleazar answer those questions. They represent a tapas, and perhaps contain what Josephus often said to the Zealots whom he met. He highlights one exit from a trapped situation. By contrast, Euripides, in addressing a similar situation many years before, concluded: "The deed is better if it saves your life than your 'good name' in which you die exulting" (Hipp. 3.184).
5 Lindner (1972: 67) shows how at this stage of the narrative self-referential terms like "servant of God" (ol(h:ovoc; BEOU) and "the one [messenger] sent by God" (ayyEAo;;) dominate.
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If we accept Eleazar's speeches as having some basis in historical reality, we must assume that this group ofJewish terrorists was being urged to give up all that had formed the essence of its being: zealous passion for Torah in favour of a Stoic approach to life and death. We are urged by Feldman to remember that these are desperate Zealots, and therefore they do not act as ordinary humans. But even after having made these allowances, I am still inclined to see here a clever ruse on the part of Josephus. Embarrassed as he must have been by the conflict he was experiencing between the glory of his Jewish past and this tragic event, he reconciled his personal conflict with the dominant Stoic doctrine in this ingenious way. Eleazar ben Yair was, nevertheless, convinced that all on the mountain must die. He had come to that conviction on the basis of Deuteronomy 13 and Jewish views of sacrifice and atonement. Now all family responsibilities, including all tender family ties, must be given up and the father's hand must perform the murder of all his children and his wife. But neither the act of Phineas nor Deuteronomy
13:6-11 would have been intelligible to the Romans or the Stoics of Josephus's time. He is left, therefore, with no alternative but to explain Masada by the use of a totally fabricated speech expressed as a lament. Shaye Cohen has shown that there were many literary analogues to this account. In our judgment the first speech may contain reminiscences shared perhaps by the woman survivor whom Josephus describes as exceptionally able. The second speech is likely crafted by Josephus himself to explain to his Roman Stoic contemporaries why there were no survivors, and why Silva was robbed of all booty. Above all, for Josephus this last desperate act illustrates again the depth of the defeat of his people and the futility of their attempts to revolt against Rome. Josephus reports that during the siege of Jerusalem there were terrible acts by desperate men, including the eating of children, but nothing could match this act, in which all children were murdered. As he points out, in many cases, not least in his own, the consequences of surrendering to Rome were not so dire. In fact, surrender, far from betrayal, was a recognition that, for the time being, God had appointed Rome ruler of the world.
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ARTIFACTS OF MASADA
4. Conclusion Whether Josephus was right or wrong is not the point and cannot be adjudicated. What is clear is that to laud his version of the last desperate acts of the people of Masada and to applaud their actions is to applaud terrorism, or at least parricide and suicide. Menachem Stern writes: "The heroic death of the defenders of Masada, who to the end remained faithful to their exalted principles and chose death by their own hands rather than capture by the enemy, was a fitting epilogue to the Great Revolt" (Ben-Sasson 1976: 303). My question is: What exalted principles? A fitting epilogue indeed! Josephus did not write a panegyric on the death of the sicarii. Perhaps because he dared not. Perhaps because, once again, he felt preparations in the air that could not help but lead to the revolt of Bar Kochba. Perhaps also because he genUinely believed that at that time a lament for the outcome of the war of the Jews was more appropriate. Historians of Christianity cannot avoid the possibility that on that mountain there may have been Zealots who had followed Jesus of Nazareth and become disillusioned with him when the Kingdom did not appear and peace was not a reality. At the heart of the work oEJesus, and even more that of Paul, burned a zeal for the rule of God, a zeal for God's house which consumed Jesus to the point of death just as it consumed the sicarii. "Which of us, taking these things to heart could be able to behold the sun, even could he live secure from peril! Who is such a foe to his country, so unmanly, so fond of life, as not
to
regret that he is still alive today?" (War
7.3 78-79). Who deserves to live when so many have died? These are the questions Josephus raises through Eleazar. The questions are legitimate. The answers are problematic. What calamity can ever justify the slaughter of our fellow humans, most of all those who are committed to us for our care? While some laud such acts, Cohen points out that the Roman historian Livy (64 BCE-12 CE) provides an exception. For while he follows his predecessors, the Greek historians, in admiring collective SUicide, calling itmors
honesta (Ad urbe condo 26.13-14, 19), he condemns without reservation the murder of women and children, "terming it a 'sordid crime' [facinus foeduml and an act of butchery [trucidatiol and murder [caedasJ." The murder of one's relatives he describes as a symptom of madness and rage (ira, furor) (Cohen 1982: 392).
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In the face of such great tragedies, all brought on not by God but by humanity's inhumanity, and in the face of such great suffering, especially on the part of women and children, maybe silence rather than judgment is our
best response. At the same time those who cannot make a judgment and voice their objection to such inhumanity only assist in bringing on the next wave of slaughter and violence, all too often endorsed by religious authorities. Perhaps we should join in the lament ofJosephus. That is, after all, a human response. In addition, the numerous discrepancies between the realia and the account of Josephus can only lead us as scholars and historians to the conclusion: "We do not know what happened on the summit of Masada on the fifteenth of Xanthicus in 74 [73?] eEl) (Cohen 1982: 401).
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Newell, R. 1982
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"The Suicide Accounts in Josephus: A Form Critical Study." In Society of Biblical Uterature 1982 Seminar Papers, 351·69. Missoula: Scholars Press.
Rajak, Tessa 1983 Josephus, the Historian and His Society. London: Duckworth. Rhoads, David M. 1976 Israel in Revolution 6·74 C.E.: A Political History Based on the Life of Josephus. Philadelphia: Fortress. Richardson, Peter 1996 Herod: King of the Jews and Friend of the Romans. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press. Schurer, Emil The History of the Jewish People in the Age ofjesus Christ (175 B.c.. A.D. 1973·87 135).4 vols. Ed. and rev. by Geza Vermes, Fergus Millar, Matthew Black and Marrin Goodman. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. Seland, Torrey Establishment Violence in Philo and Luke: A Study of Non.Conformity 1995 to the Torah and Jewish Vigilante Reactions. Leiden: Brill. Shanks, Hershel 1986 "Archaeology as Politics." Commentary 82: 50·52. Silberman, Neil Asher 1994 A Prophet from Among You-Yigael Yadin: Soldier, Scholar and Mythmaker of Modem Israel. London: Addison Wesley. Spong, John Shelhy 1996 Uberating the Gospels: Reading the Bible with Jewish Eyes. San Francisco: HarperCollins. Yadin, Yigael 1965 The Ben Sira Scroll from Masada. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society. 1966 Masada: Herod's Fortress and the Zealots' Last Stand. Trans. Moshe Pearlman. London: Sphere. Zias, Joseph 1998 "Whose Bones? Were They Really Jewish Defenders?" Biblical Archaeology Review 24: 40-45,64·66.
27 MISHNAH'S RHETORIC, OTHER MATERIAL ARTIFACTS OF LATE-ROMAN GALILEE AND THE SOCIAL FORMATION OF THE EARLY RABBINIC GUILD JACK
N. LIOHTSTONE
Attempts to bring to bear the material evidence for late-Roman Palestine upon the study of the social formation of the early rabbinic guild, also a development oflate-Roman Palestinian society, have been fraught with difficulty and have been, largely, disappointing. Archaeology continues to shed light upon the material culture, social organization, economics and religion of the region in late antiquity. Much found in early rabbinic literature is thereby elucidated. This is particularly so when texts make reference to realia and technological processes, for example; and despite the dangers of circularity, the inverse is also the case. Palestinian rabbinic literary sources serve to clarify material artifacts. l After all, these texts and the material objects unearthed by the archaeologists are artifacts of the same society. Notwithstanding, for students of ancient Rabbinism interested in the social formation of the early rabbinic guild of masters, the hope that archaeological evidence might significantly and directly contribute to our analysis of the literary evidence has largely gone unfulfilled. In this essay, I suggest how and why that has been the case. In addition, I propose another way, albeit indirect, in which the material evidence for late-Roman Galilee may help us understand the social formation (or re-formation) of the early rabbinic movement at the end of the second and beginning of the third centuries CEo
Perhaps the "classic" works written since World War II that can be seen to move freely between literary and material evidence must be those of Alon and Avi-Yonah. The works of both are available in English translations (Alon 1989; Avi-Yonah 1984; see also AviYonah 1966).
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Section 1 of this essay rehearses the results of my socia-rhetorical study of Mishnah, insofar as these results bear upon understanding the social formation of the early rabbinic movement. In addition, I relate the latter to the consolidation of the power and authority of the Palestinian Jewish Patriarchy. Section 2 reviews the principal results of those scholars who have plumbed the archaeological evidence in an attempt to shed light on the development of the early rabbinic guild of masters. I side with those among them, notably Shaye Cohen (1981-82: 1-17), who argue that there is little in the material evidence that serves directly to elucidate the rise and role of the rabbinic class in late-Roman Galilee. Finally, again in section 2, I suggest another approach entirely to the problem.
1. Rhetoric of Mishnah and Social (Re) Fonnation of the Early Rabbinic Guild 1.1 Rhetoric and Social Role In my research these last several years I have undertaken a comparative sociorhetorical study of Mishnah and related rabbinic documents, notably Tosefta. My aim has been to shed light upon the social (re)formation of the rabbinic guild in late second- and early third-century Galilee. Mishnah (ca. 200 CE) was the first document authored by the rabbinic movement and was immediately promulgated within the movement as the authoritative text (of course, after the Hebrew Bible itself). Mishnah retained that pre-eminence until it was effectively displaced by the Babylonian Talmud in the sixth century CEo The pre-eminent role of Mishnah study within the early rabbinic movement in the several centuries following its promulgation is well attested. The ongoing study and mastery of Mishnah, above all, marked one as a rabbinic master or a would-be rabbinic master. That mastery was over content, to be sure, and the antecedent body of legal knowledge assumed to be possessed by the rabbinic master. Much of that antecedent body of knowledge was to be found in the Hebrew Bible; some significant portion was not, and must have constituted a corpus of tradition for which the rabbinic novice was dependent upon the instruction of "his" master. It is not, however, the legal content of Mishnah, or the body of knowledge assumed to be possessed by its readers, that has been the focus of my study. Rather, I have worked largely within the conceptual, theoretical and
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TEXT AND ARTIFACT
methodological framework of socio-rhetorical analysis. That is, I have concentrated on Mishnah's "authoritative modes of speech" in presenting its materials-its dominant rhetorical traits. Socia-rhetorical analysis, as indicated by the hyphen, marries two things. One is attending to formal patterns of rhetoric. The other is a conceptual and theoretical framework which understands that formal rules of rhetoric are social-context specific; rhetoric achieves the desired ends because of shared social definitions about what will count as persuasive within a given social sphere, be it the law court, the council or the academy. Using the analysis of formal modes of rhetoric to shed light on the shared social definitions and norms that constitute these spheres, or that establish the professional expertise expected of a particular class, is the proper concern of socio-rhetorical analysis. In classical Greek and Latin literature and society rhetoric is understood as "modes of argument recognized as persuasive." That focus has less applicability to Mishnah. But conceptually or theoretically, this definition of formalized rhetoric can be understood as a sub-category of something more general. That more general category comprises "formal modes of speaking, writing, or evincing a formalized expertise which are socially defined as authoritative within a given social sphere, community or group." When these formal modes are quite specifically defined, then rhetoric (in my more general sense) may both reflect and provide the basis for the creation, perpetuation and identification of a class, profession or guild (such as advocate, council member or senator, philosopher/teacher or "rabbi"). We can attempt to track the emergence, entrenchment and transformation of formal modes of rhetoric, in this general sense, within a community or group. In so doing, we are tracking the social formation and transformation of authoritative roles, classes, professions and gUilds within that particular society and culture. This is especially valuable when we have little in the way of reliable narrative or epigraphic evidence for the latter. I argue that the rhetorical traits of Mishnah for the members of the early rabbinic movement modelled that expertise which established one as a member of the profeSSional group. Thus while much of the subject matter of Mishnah, which deals with an ideal, utopian, Temple-centred Israelite world, may have had limited quotidian value in late second- and early third-century Galilee, the manner in which that world is defined and "spun out" in Mishnah did. The
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prima facie authority of the specific subject matter (grounded as it was in a world legitimated in the Pentateuch) effectively lent itself to establishing within the rabbinic movement the authoritative general ways of elaborating grids to be applied to the contemporary Israelite world. To be (come) a rabbi meant gaining mastery of these authoritative ways, as much as mastery of Mishnah's utopian content. As mentioned, this was achieved by lifelong study of Mishnah, well attested as a core sign of and activity among members of the rabbinic class.
1.2 A Brief Foray into Mishnah's Rhetoric Permit me to offer a typical example of Mishnah's rhetoric and the formal expertise modelled therein. 2
Mishnah Tractate Bekorot 1.2-1.4a 1.2 A. A cow which gave birth (to an offspring] like [one] from an ass, A. or an ass which gave birth [to an offspring] like [one] from a horseB. [the offspring] is exempt from the law of the firstling, C. since it is said, "The firstling of an ass" (Exod 13: 13), "The firstling of an ass" (Exod 34:20), D. two times [meaning the offspring is not liable to the law of the firstling], until it shall be [the case that] that which gives birth is an ass and that which is born is an ass. E. And what are they with respect to eating? F. A clean animal which gave birth [to an offspring] like [one] from an unclean animal-[the offspring] is permitted with respect to eating. G. And an unclean animal which gave birth [to an offspring] like [one] from a clean animal-[ the offspring] is prohibited with respect to eating, H. since what comes forth from an unclean [animal] is unclean and what comes forth from a clean [animal] is clean.
2 My analyses and those of my graduate students, K. Menchick and M. Mamfredis, of substantial sections of a number of Mishnah's tractates permit me to draw the conclusions which I have reported upon at greater length elsewhere (Lights tone 1997: 275-95). These analyses show that the passage which presently follows is not an aberration as regards the rhetorical features of Mishnah.
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1.
An unclean fish which swallowed a clean fish-[the fish swallowed] is permitted with respect to cating. J. A clean fish which swallowed an unclean fish-[the fish swallowed] is prohibited with respect to eating, K. because it is not its offspring.
1.3 A. An ass which had not given birth to any offspring and it gave birth to two males [and it is not known which came out first]B. [the owner] gives one [redemption] lamb to the priest; C. a male and a femaleD. [the owner] separates one lamb for himself. E. Two asses which had not given birth to any offspring and they gave birth to two malesF. [the owner] gives two [redemption] lambs to the priest; G. a male and a female, H. or two males and a female1. [the owner] gives one [redemption] lamb to the priest; J. two females and one male, K. or two males and two femalesL. there is nothing here for the priest.
1.4a A. One [ass] had given birth
to offspring, and one [i.e., another ass] which had not given birth to any offspring, and they gave birth to two malesB. [the owner] gives one [redemption] lamb to the priest; C. a male and femaleD. [the owner] separates one lamb for himself.
I shall not provide an account of the (assumed) background of biblical and rabbinic law required to grasp fully the meaning of these rulings. Suffice it to say that, from a rhetorical perspective, the authors assume that the reader either possesses that background already or has immediate and ongoing access to someone who does (namely, a "master"). Let me turn rather to the passage's rhetorical features. As I have already claimed, little in this passage counts as argument, that is, the active convincing of one's audience (and possible detractors) of the appropriateness of one's claims. The closest one comes to such a concern in the passage is the scriptural proof-texting and exegesis at 1.2, sections C-D. In addition, Hand K of 1.2 might seem at first glance to proffer arguments intended to persuade. This type of truncated, supporting scriptural
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exegesis is not uncommon in Mishnah. The vast majority of Mishnah's rulings, however, go unsupported by any accompanying scriptural proof-texting (with or without exegesis). With respect to the (alleged) "arguments" or "reasons" provided at Hand K, in reality they merely make explicit as a general ruling what is already (implicitly) communicated in the preceding rulings on specific cases. That is, Hand K merely spell out the contrast already made in adducing the cases at F-G and at 1-J. In the former that which emerges is an offspring. In the latter it is not. Spelling out in general terms what is contained in several specific case rulings is not an aberration in Mishnah, although it is infrequent. What, now, is left in 1.2-1.4a without 1.2: C-D and 1.2: H, K? We have a list of cases and of circumstances constituting individual cases joined by "and" (1) and "which" ('li). We have very laconic rulings for each-in truth the replication several times over of a very limited number of contrasting rulings, often repeating identical language save the use of lexical opposites (e.g., permitted, prohibited) or lexical progressions (e.g., one, cwo) to achieve the contrast. Following is the language of the rulings (apodoses) only.
1.2 B.
is exempt from the law of the firstling; is permitted with respect to eating; G. is prohibited with respect to eating; I. is permitted with respect to eating; J. is prohibited with respect to eating; 1.3 B. gives one lamb to the priest; D. separates one lamb for himself; F. gives two lambs to the priest; 1. gives one lamb to the priest; L. there is nothing here for the priest;
F.
1.4 B. gives one lamb to the priest; D. separates one Iamb for himself. I now turn to the "cases" (protases) for which the rulings are given.
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1.2 A. A. D. F.
a cow which gave birth [to an offspring) like [onel from an ass; an ass which gave birth [to an offspring] like [one] from a horse; that which gives birth is an ass and that which is born is an ass; a clean animal which gave birth [to an offspring] like [one] from an unclean animal; G. an unclean animal which gave birth [to an offspring] like [one] from a clean animal; 1. an unclean fish which swallowed a clean fish; J. a clean fish which swallowed an unclean fish;
1.3 A. an ass which had not given birth to any offspring and it gave birth to two males; C. a male and a female; E. two asses which had not given birth to any offspring gave birth to F. two males; G. a male and a female; H. or two males and a female; J. two females and one male; K. or two males and two females; 1.4a A. one [absl had given birth to offspring, and one [i.e., another ass] which had not given birth to any offspring, and they gave birth to A. two males; C. a male and female. The language in which the "cases" are formulated is laconic and "economical" in the extreme. Again, the same language is reused in case after case. This includes not only simple lexical repetition but also repetition of entire phrases and clauses, and morphology and syntax. "New" cases are generated by: changes in one or two operative terms (cow, ass) j the use of lexical opposites (clean, unclean); simple inversion or negation (has given birth, has not given birth) j progressions (an ass, two asses) j and permutations (two males and a female, a male and two females). By these techniques the author "spins out" lists of contrasting cases, often of increasing complexity-all with an economic use of words and phrases. There is little that is "discursive-prose-like" about this text's use of language to define circumstances as the object of rulings. Elsewhere
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(Lightstone 1997: 275·95), I have described the use oflanguage in Mishnah as lyric-like and have spoken of Mishnah formulations as baroque-like, in the sense of baroque music's penchant for spinning out musical movements by inversion, progression and permutation of musical themes. All this is to imply that in this respect, as in so many others which cannot be discussed in this essay, Mishnah does not restrict itself to "real world" circumstances, but rather displays a strong tendency to define and rule upon hypothetical and increasingly
complex circumstances in a theoretical or imagined world. The increasing complexity and the strong sense of the hypothetical/theoretical derive from the multiplication of defining factors and their systematic permutation, progression, augmentation, etc.
1.3 Mishnah's Rhetoric and the Social Formation of the Rabbinic Guild How might socio-rhetorical methods and conceptual models help us to understand the place of Mishnah, with its particular and pervasive rhetorical features, in the social setting of the earliest rabbinic guild, and also help us to understand something of the social formation of that guild? Recall my general definition of rhetoric. It comprises "formal modes of speaking, writing, or evincing a formalized expertise which are socially defined as authoritative within a given social sphere, community or group." We know, as mentioned, that from the late second and early third centuries the study of Mishnah was deemed among the rabbis to be a lifelong pursuit. From that pursuit, rabbinic disciples were validated by their "masters" as worthy themselves of the title of "master." fn that pursuit, "masters" maintained their master-status in the eyes of their disciples and peers. Study of Mishnah was a key element in the social formation, definition, maintenance and perpetuation of the rabbinic guild, professional order or "college of masters." No doubt other key elements had to do with the social, political, cultural and economic order of late second· and early third-century Galilee. But what is characteristic of Mishnah defined the core-expertise characteristic of the rabbi as understood within the "inner life" of the professional order or guild, apart from other, complementary social definitions of the role and expertise of the rabbi which may have existed outside the guild in the marketplace, court and council. What is that inner guild-defining core expertise which is reflected, inculcated and perpetuated in Mishnah, and by its perpetual study? Put simply,
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and in the terms of Mary Douglas's Natural Symbols (1970), masters of the rabbinic guild are a class of persons who have the training to imagine, conceptualize or define a sphere of reality in accordance with a highly, indeed ever more highly, differentiated "grid." For that sphere the rabbi can multiply defining and differentiating factors in order to distinguish better one case from another, where others can perceive or create no differentiation at alL In stating that one (divinely sanctioned) rule applies in one such case but not another, the
rabbi is "stating" that the "master's" perceptions of these differences matter in the utmost. Moreover, in applying one rule rather than another to circumstances that the non-rabbinic eye cannot differentiate, the rabbi claims the ability and authority to lay a highly differentiated, divinely sanctioned, world-ordering grid on sphere after sphere of our otherwise undifferentiated, chaotic world. The theoretical and conceptual framework and attendant methods of socio-rhetorical analysis provide very different insights into the nature and social formation of the earliest rabbinic guild than those proffered by other types of scholarship. Other scholars of the history of early Rabbinism have focussed on the rabbi as tradent, preserving and ramifying the legal traditions of Judean society from the period before its destruction in wars with Rome. They see the formation of the rabbinic movement or guild and the production of Mishnah as a concerted effort to preserve these endangered traditions. My own research offers another vantage point. I have pointed to the core expertise that seems to have been formative for the rabbinic movement at the end of the second century and the beginning of the third. Do the production and promulgation of Mishnah mark the beginning of that expertise or of the rabbinic movement? The answer is both yes and no. On the one hand, Mishnah is the first document authored and promulgated within the rabbinic movement as authoritative for all. More to the point, Mishnah was the first text successfully promulgated as authoritative for all by some group of rabbis who eradicated (or assimilated to themselves) other rabbinic groups which may have competed with them for primacy within nascent Rabbinism. Hence, the very production and successful promulgation of Mishnah represent a massive formation or re-formation of the early rabbinic movement. In this regard, it is worth noting that, as Jacob Neusner has
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demonstrated,3 Mishnah's authors have largely eradicated the language of any antecedent sources or tradents, the substantive legal teachings of which may have been incorporated into Mishnah. The power to do so should not be taken for granted, politically or sociologically. On the other hand, Mishnah preserves the names of some one hundred rabbinic tradents, to whom are attributed legal rulings (Cohen 1992; 157-74), now cast in Mishnah's authors' language and rhetorical style (Lightstone 1997: 275-95). These named tradents span, for the most part, the approximately one hundred years from the destruction of Jerusalem in 70 CE to about the last quarter of the second century. In sheer volume, however, attributions to four masters Oudah, Yosi, Meir and Simeon) from the period ca. 135 to 165 CE outstrip all others (Goodblatt 1994: 264). I shall not venture into the debate concerning the reliability of these attributions (Neusner 1981 j Goodblatt 1994: 147). Surely, it was not in the interest of the rabbinic circle that produced Mishnah to portray itself as creating things out of thin air, and much mythmaking is to be expected from them in order to place their authority upon an older foundation. But that foundation will have had to be recognized as legitimate within the group and within the circles of those whom its members aspired to assimilate to their group. This suggests that not all attributions are necessarily without substance or basis. More to the point of this essay, it is improbable that the guild expertise modelled and promulgated in Mishnah is created ex nihilo near the end of the second century. More probably, that expertise revives and transforms one that had some institutional base and functionality (and had therefore been "bought and paid for") within Palestinian society in some era not too far removed from the date of Mishnah's authors. The production and promulgation of Mishnah, with its modelling of a particular core rabbinic expertise, however, must reflect the emergence of some contemporary, late second-century institutional venue in which Mishnah-like expertise was (once again?) "bought and paid for."
1.4 Extra-Guild Institutional Venue for the Exercise of Rabbinic Expertise The evidence of Mishnah would, therefore, have us look to not one but two institutional/functional venues for a guild expertise partially modelled on
3 See Neusner's numerous works on Mishnah (esp. 1981).
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Mishnah-like rhetoric. One would be an earlier venue, perceived as the historical, even historic, origins for that professional guild expertise. The other would be a venue contemporary with Mishnah's authors. I propose that Mishnah's attributions, be they mere myth-making or not, point to the Mishnah authors' perception of the interval between these social-institutional venues. The lion's share of Mishnah's attributions span approximately one century, ending with the last quarter of the second centuryCE. The importance to Mishnah's authors of spanning these one hundred years with a tradentalline is all the more evident when one considers that the overwhelming number of attributions in Mishnah are to Judah, Yosi, Meir and Simeon of the post-Bar Kochba era. Making attributions to masters believed to have been active before the Bar Kochba rebellion seems a challenge for Mishnah's authors. Yet they appear committed to the enterprise. Likely possibilities, real or perceived, for appropriate institutional venues for the employment of Mishnah-like rhetorical expertise at either end of these one hundred years are not numerous. The Temple-centred national administration of Roman Palestine is surely at the earlier end. The Galileecentred Patriarchate of Judah I is at the other. In both semi-autonomous religious/administrative governments, persons with expertise akin to that reflected in Mishnah's rhetoric would have furnished what Anthony Saldarini (following G. Lenski) has called a retainer class of administrative officials (Saldarini 1988). I propose that the creation and promulgation of Mishnah reflect the formation or major re-formation of the Patriarchate at the time ofJudah I, and the formation or re-formation of the rabbinic guild as a retainer class within the Patriarchate ofJudah I near the end of the second century.4 In other words, a
4 With respect to a different set of issues and on quite different evidentiary grounds, Cohen makes a similar claim about the [ate second-century rabbinic movement and the Patriarchy of Judah I (1992: 157-74). Goodblatt offers a rather different view (1994: 131-231). At issue, in part, is the dating of the foundation of the Patriarchy irself. Goodblatt proposes that its foundation dates from Gamaliel II prior to the Bar Kochba rebellion, with a reestablishment of the institution after 135 under Simeon b. Gamaliel II. Hezser's view is intermediary between my own and Goodblatt's in that she tends to date evidence, in particular so-called "Tannaitic" evidence in post-Mishnaic works, to the period in which the masters named therein flourished. She believes. however. that the Patriarchate in Roman Palestine W30 established in the time ofJudah I, who was its first incumbent (1997: 406). Still further on the continuum of views about the establishment or powers of the
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new stage in the development and institutionalization of the rabbinic class correlates with the use of the rabbinic class as retainers in Judah 1'8 administration. The Patriarchy itself probably underwent a major transformation at this time, if indeed the Patriarchate does not actually begin with Judah I (see Goodblatt 1994: 131-231; Levine 1979; 1985: 90-127; 1996). Mishnah models, in its pervasive rhetorical style, the professional expertise "paid for" by Judah 1's administration in its use of members of the rabbinic class as retainers. It also reflects the attempt to unify and control by imposing its model upon all members of the rabbinic class and (retroactively) upon all antecedent tradental circles. In its content (the ideal, Temple-centred world of Mishnah's rulings), however, Mishnah claims for members of the rabbinic class their origin as retainers in the Temple priesthood's government. In these respects, Mishnah is indeed a watershed document. It reflects a (n idealized) past, in order to model a formative expertise for a new social formation. T osefta (ca. 250-300), the first post-Mishnaic rabbinic legal work and first Mishnah "commentary," lies beyond that watershed moment, as I believe a systematic comparison of the rhetorical features and content of the two texts will demonstrate. Despite T osefta's dependence upon Mishnah's agenda and literary formulations, it registers in concrete ways the rabbinic class's involvement and interest in issues faced by the guild members in fulfilment of their duties as retainers. s Indeed, I suspect that a study of extra- or para-Mishnaic legal concerns registered in T osefta and in earlier sources preserved in the Palestinian Talmud will discover parallels to the evidence we have for the responsibilities and powers of the Patriarchate in third-century Palestine. 6 In any event, the strong dependency of the rabbinic class upon the Patriarch, or, perhaps more
Patriarchy is Goodman, who claims that only from the latter half of the third century is such power attested by the evidence (1983; see also 1992: 127-39). Levine also offers an interpretation of the evidence concerning the Patriarchy in third-century Roman Palestine, but without prejudice to its status or foundation in the second (1979: 649-88; 1985: 90129; 1996: 1-32). Like Goodblatt, Levine sees the origins of the Patriarchy with Gamaliel II, but asserts that some major re-formation of the institution reflected in significant redefinition of its power and authority occurred with Judah I at the beginning of the third century. 5 Results reported by Cohen are a harbinger of this (1992: 157-74). 6 I have already demonstrated that when Tosefta does not replicate Mishnah's rhetorical style, Tosefta's rhetorical repertoire anticipates that of the Palestinian Talmud (Lights tone 1994: l73-245). Cohen (1992) states that, in Neusner's view, the Palestinian Talmud is "about" Jewish society, whereas Mishnah is about a utopian T emplr,:-centced world (Neusner 1983).
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accurately, the co-dependency of the rabbinic retainers and the Patriarch, registers clearly in the Tosefta and in "earlier" sources preserved in the Talmuds (Goodblatt 1994: 131-231; Levine 1979; 1985: 90-127; 1996). What then may be said of the powers and responsibilities of the Palestinian Patriarchate from the onset of the third century, the period of Mishnah's promulgation, and of the social (re)formation of the rabbinic guild of masters? 1 rehearse here the main lines of Lee Levine's catalogue of third-century Patriarchal powers as portrayed in rabbinic sources. (Unlike Levine, however, I view rabbinic references in third-century and later texts to the state of affairs in the first half of the second century as, more likely, a combination of anachronistic retrojection and self-serving myth-making.) Here then is a summary of Levine's list of powers (1996). 1. Representing the community to imperial authorities;
2. serving as the focus ofleadership in the Jewish community; 2.1. receiving daily visits from prominent families; 2.2. declaring public fasts; 2.3. initiating or abrogating the ban (01n); 3. appointing judges to Jewish courts in Palestine; 4. controlling the calendar; 5. issuing enactments and decrees with respect to the applicability of or release from legal requirements, e.g., 5.1. use of sabbatical-year produce, and implementation of sabbatical-year injunctions; 5.2. repurchase or redemption of formerly Jewish land from Gentile owners; 5.3. status of Hellenistic cities of Palestine re: purity, tithing, sabbatical year; 5.4. exemptions from tithing; 5.5. conditions in divorce documents; 5.6. use of oil produced by Gentiles; 6. dispatching emissaries to Diaspora communities; and 7. imposing taxes: both the power to tax and the authority to rule/ intervene on the disposition of taxes raised for local purposes by local councils.
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Several of these third-century Patriarchal powers, which Levine argues are attested in rabbinic documents, appear in Roman legal decrees about Patriarchal powers. Alas, Roman evidence derives from sources from the last decade (only) of the third century through the nrst quarter of the fifth. Contemporary nonJewish literary, as opposed
to
legal, sources confirm and complement the
evidence from Roman legal documents. As David Goodblatt shows (1994: 13239; see also Goodman 1992), these Roman decrees concern in particular:
1. the judicial powers ofJewish courts under Patriarchal control, or Jewish courts to which the Patriarch appoints judges;
2. the prerogative of the Patriarch to appoint (and remove) Jewish communal officials, such as archisynagogoi, local patriarchs, presbyters and others, in addition to appointments to judicial benches; 3. the power of the Patriarch to levy taxes (including tithes and first fruits) to allow local communities to defray the costs of his administration; and
4. the practice of sending emissaries (apostles) to local communities
to
speak for or represent the interests of the Patriarch. The sources adduced by Goodblatt and others clearly indicate that by the end of the fourth century the Palestinian Patriarch exercised many of these powers among Jewish communities in Roman lands outside the land of Israel. From the list, and the sources from which it is culled, it is clear that a twotiered system of "Jewish" government existed in Roman Palestinian Jewish communities from early in the third century. To some degree, this two-tiered structure was later replicated beyond Palestine in the Roman Diaspora. One tier operated at the local level, under the authority of the council (POUA~) of local aristocratic families. This level, in Goodblatt's view, existed prior to the ascendency of the Palestinian Patriarchate (Goodblatt 1994: 131-231). The other level, which by the onset of the third century came to overlay, but not replace, local Jewish administration, was that of the Patriarch. Both Goodblatt and Levine agree that no "national" council existed. Therefore, none could serve as a venue for Patriarchal power or for the exercise of the expertise or authority of members of the rabbinic class. The Patriarch did seem to have his
(r'
n):l). Evidence, however, does not point to that court own judicial court possessing general trans-local power.
488
TEXT AND ARTIFACT Where does this leave the rabbinic retainer class? Its members are clearly
associated with the Patriarchate. They are agents not of local communal government, but of the Patriarch's delimited interventionist powers. On a dayto-day basis that power would surely be most characteristically expressed in the local courts, the principal local institution over which the Patriarch seems to have had the power directly
to
appoint officials. Judicial courts in ancient
Palestinian society included powers of enforcement and the administration of compliance. These are bureaucratic-legal functions which today we associate with a civil-service functionary class, not with judicial courts per se. Here, at the level both of the judicial bench and of court agent/functionary, the rabbinic class or guild of retainers provided a cadre of persons with appropriate "professional" expertise. But as the sources cited by Levine indicate, the power possessed by the Patriarch was judiciously used, with appropriate sensitivity to the aspirations and traditional power of members of the local Jewish aristocracy. The Patriarch's need to retain the favour of the latter was sometimes or often exercised to the dismay of would-be appointees to local benches from the rabbinic retainer class. To conclude, there is no better summary of non-Jews' perception of the power and status of the Patriarch in mid-third century Palestine than a passage from Origen's Letter to Africanus. Neither Goodman (1992: 128), Goodblatt (1994: 131) nor Levine (1996: 22) can resist citing it. Neither can 1. Now that the Romans rule and the Jews pay the two drachmas to them, we, who have had experience of it, know how much power the ethnarch !Patriarch of the Jews] has among them and that he differs in little from a king of the nation. Trials are held according to the [Jewish] law [as determined by the Patriarch], and some are [even] condemned to death. And though there is not full permission for this [i.e., the trial of capital cases], still it is not done without the knowledge of the [Roman] ruler. (trans. Goodman 1992: 128; additions in square brackets are my own)
2. The Rabbinic Guild and the Material Evidence of Late-Roman Galilee
2.1 Venues of the Court and Settlement in the Galilee and Adjacent Territories Rabbinic evidence points to southern Galilee as the principal base in Roman Palestine of the rabbinic guild or class after the Bar Kochba war. Indeed, early
MISHNAH'S RHETORIC
489
third- through fifth-century Palestinian rabbinic sources consistently portray that principal base as located with the court of the Patriarch-at Usha (with Simeon b. Gamaliel II, if Patriarchal powers arc not anachronistically assigned to Simeon by rabbinic sources), at Beth She'arim and subsequently at
Sepphoris (both with Judah 1) and finally at Tiberias (with Judah l's successors through the first quarter of the fifth century). Certainly after (and largely as a result of) the failed Bar Kochba rebellion, Jewish settlement in Palestine shifted northward to Upper Galilee (including the Golan) and Lower Galilee (including the Jezreel, Beth Shean and Jordan valleys). Jewish settlements remained, indeed likely increased, in cities of the Palestinian coastal plain (like Caesarea), as Jews left the Judean hill communities which had surrounded Jerusalem. But the material remains of Jewish settlement from the end of the second through the sixth centuries covering dozens of towns and cities in the Galilee are prodigious by comparison (Tsafrir 1984). Vivid indication of this claim derives from the distribution in the land of Israel of the remains of synagogues dated to the Roman and Byzantine eras. Taken together, Lee Levine and Amos Kloner document about three dozen cities and towns with the remains of about sixty synagogues in the north, including the Golan. They show less than half that number in the towns and cities in the remainder of the land of Israel (Levine 1981: 1-10; Kloner 1981: 11-18; Safrai 1986: 210; Foerster 1986: 63-68). The location of the Patriarch's headquarters in Lower Galilee, Jezreel and the adjacent Jordan valleys, close to this concentrated settlement, but still within reasonable travelling distance from Caesarea, seems eminently functional. Given, as I have argued, the (unequal) co-dependency of the Patriarch and the members of the rabbinic guild of masters, it is in the north, in Galilee, that the leadership of the rabbinic class would have resided, and in the north that their retainer functions would especially have been used (see Cohen 1992).7 2.2 The Material Evidence for the Exercise of Rabbinic Power in Palestine Have, then, the power, authority and prestige of members of the rabbinic guild, a Patriarch-sanctioned retainer class, registered on the material evidence for
7 On the rabbinic sources concerning purported rabbinic interest in regulating synagogue functions see Levine (1992: 201-22).
490
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Roman Palestine, in particular in the Galilee? The short answer is: apparently not. The salient points are simple.
2.2.1 The basic architecture of synagogues from the late second through the fifth centuries does not accord with rabbinic dicta. For example, according to Palestinian rabbinic sources synagogues were to be oriented east-west, like the Jerusalem Temple, toward the rising sun. No Roman- or Byzantine-period synagogues in the Galilee or adjacent territories are so oriented (Levine 1992; Foerster 1992). This is all the more striking given that many were rebuilt once or several times over this period, sometimes with reorientation of the building-never in accordance with rabbinic dicta. Before the fourth century, northern Palestinian synagogues had a monumental facade and entrance facing south, toward Jerusalem. On the interior of the monumental facade were one or more aedicula(e) (probably for the display of the Torah scroll) beside the entrance. The assembled congregation faced south, not east. In synagogues built or rebuilt in the fourth or fifth century, the "Torah Shrine" and entrance(s) were no longer on the same wall, but the shrine in these later synagogues is still on the southern wall, with the assembled congregation still facing south to Jerusalem. If one hypothesizes that rabbinic power over the course of late antiquity was consolidated and increased in Roman Palestine, this is a significant negative result.
2.2.2 The art found in late-Roman and Byzantine Galilean synagogues does not accord with even the most stalwart attempts to interpret Palestinian rabbinic sources so as to render them more lenient and hence more consistent with the material evidence (Levine 1992; Foerster 1992).8 Before the fourth century, Galilean synagogues did not generally have mosaic floors. The evidence shows that some interior synagogue walls were plastered and painted. These could have had murals or frescoes. But no such paintings have survived, if they existed.
8 The list of publications debating the question of the consistency or inconsistency of rabbinic dicta on the one hand, and ancient synagogue art on the other, is extensive. The "classic" debate by modern scholars over the second half of the twentieth century begins just after World War II with Kraeling's reports on the Dura-Europos synagogue (1956), Goodenough's famous twelve-volume work Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period (1953-68), to the numerous participants in the debate over Goodenough's work. Following this debat~ and documenting it bibliographically would be a study in its own right.
MISHNAH'S RHETORIC
491
Nothing found in the Galilee parallels the murals and frescoes found in the Dura Europos synagogue. Their preservation was fortuitous. That synagogue abutted the city wall. City defenders, anticipating a siege, buttressed the inner side of the city wall with sand. The fill remained until the synagogue was excavated in modern times. Many Galilean synagogues from the fourth and fifth centuries, however, have elaborate mosaic floors. Animal and human figures are liberally portrayed, especially in depictions of the zodiac, the personified seasons and Helios on his chariot. Scholarly interpretation of rabbinic laws concerning idolatrous images and the second commandment must be creatively stretched to account for this, if the hypothesis of the authority of rabbinic law over synagogue builders is to be maintained. Mosaic floors in fourth- and fifth-century Galilean synagogues also tend to have some representation of the Torah Shrine and are typically flanked by depictions of Temple-cult paraphernalia. These include incense shovels, shofar, palm branch (J.~7)'J), citron (:mnN)-originally Temple-cult objects-and the seven-branched candelabra (ill))y')). As Levine points out, rabbis decried the use of explicit Temple symbolism in the synagogue, with the menorah especially interdicted (Levine 1992: 216).
2.2.3 "Jewish" inscriptions on public buildings in the Galilee, almost exclusively synagogues, tend to refer to two types of persons: benefactors whose generosity made mosaics or monumental architectural features possible; and artisans who performed the work (Foerster 1992: 298,306; Naveh 1981; Urman 1981; BenDov 1981; Lifshitz 1967). Most are in Aramaic, a few in Hebrew or bilingually in Aramaic and Hebrew, fewer still in Greek. Curiously there appears no tendency to refer to synagogue officials in these inscriptions. Generally missing are references to members of the rabbinic class/guild. 9
9 It is worth noting that the trend in Diaspora synagogues may differ somewhat in regard to reference to synagogue offlcials. But the paucity of the evidence from Diaspora synagogue inscriptions, relative to Palestine, makes the comparison meaningless (see Foerster 1981). Kraabel (1981) sums up matters. When he ,tates, however, that "elders, archesynagogoi, archons and scribes are well attested in Jewish inscriptions in the Diaspora generally" (1981: 84) he refers not so much to evidence from synagogues as to that from tomb inscriptions. In Palestine and the Galilee too, funerary inscriptions provide far richer evidence for the social!organizational structures of synagogues than those that come from synagogue sites themselves (see Kant 1987).
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There are two particularly notable exceptions to the above. One is the lengthy synagogue mosaic epigraph in the synagogue at Rehob, south of Beth Shean (Sussman 1981). It concerns the boundaries of the land of Israel with respect to the application of sabbatical-year prohibitions and tithing. A number of aspects of the epigraph should be noted. First, the epigraph is a halakhic text dependent upon known rabbinic sources. Second, it makes reference to Patriarch Judah I by his usual name in early rabbinic literature (simply "Rabbi," without the designation of either his or his father's name). Third, while some of the rabbinic sources upon which the epigraph appears dependent bear attributions to named rabbinic figures, these attributions do not appear in the epigraph. The only attribution is to "Rabbi." Fourth, the synagogue in which the epigraph appears dates from somewhere near the end of the Byzantine period. The epigraph sheds no light on the role and authority of members of the rabbinic class or guild in the third or fourth century, although it may well indicate the ascendency of rabbinic law and legal literature after the demise of the Palestinian Patriarchate in the period following the first quarter of the fifth century. Therefore, the Rehob epigraph at least partly represents the exception that proves the rule. The second exception is an inscription from Dabbura in adjacent Golan. Inscribed in Hebrew, it translates as "This is the study house of [?il'O 1'011D rpJ.] Rabbi Eliezer HaQappar" (see Urman 1981: 155). The inscription appears
on a lintel of a building now lost, and dates from the third century. The juxtaposition of a reference to bet midrash (an institution frequently attested in Tosefta) and the title "rabbi" makes this inscription unique in providing clear reference from the remains of a Galilean Jewish institutional building to a member of the rabbinic guild/class of masters. A Rabhi Eliezer HaQappar (sometimes referred to as Bar-Qapparah in Aramaic) is known from thirdcentury rabbinic texts. The textually attested Rabbi Eliezer flourished in the time of Judah 1. I distinguish the HaQappar inscription from the ~J. ~1)J. inscriptions or epigraphs, some of which appear on Jewish public buildings. Since the remainder of the 'J.'·PJ. inscriptions/epigraphs appear on tombs, I deal with them below when discussing funerary inscriptions. Finally, one inscription (in Greek) from level IIA (early fourth century) of the synagogue at Hammath Tiberias honours a certain Severus, "a student of the illustrious Patriarchs," for his support in completing the (re)construction of the synagogue (Dothan 1981). We do not require such an inscription to lend
493
MISHNAH'S RHETORIC
weight to conclusions about Patriarchal power and prestige in fourth-century Galilee. In the fourth century, Patriarchal authority is well attested in rabbinic sources, Roman legal documents and non-Jewish literary works. It is noteworthy that the term "illustrious Patriarchs" offers the Greek equivalent of the term usually used in Roman legal compendia for the Palestinian Patriarch. In sum, synagogue inscriptions and epigraphs offer no hint of a powerful role played by named members of the rabbinic class. This situation differs in no way from the literary evidence from non-Jewish sources.
2.2.4 Funerary inscriptions fTom the Galilee provide the richest material evidence for social roles in late-Roman Jewish Galilee (and for other Jewish communities as well). In the late-Roman period, the necropolis at Beth She'arim was a preferred burial site for those wealthy enough to transport their dead and to have tombs hewn in Beth She'arim's catacombs (Weiss 1992; van der Horst 1991; Frey 1936-52; cf. Cohen 1981-82; Kant 1987: 697; Schwabe and Lifshitz 1974; see also Longenecker, Chapter 15 above). The terms ):11, ):11):1, ):1)1, ):1)1:1 appear. They are attested here and in other Palestinian epigraphs
(several in synagogues) in both Aramaic and Greek transliteration. Unlike the Dabbura inscription concerning the "study study" of "Rabbi Eliezer HaQappar," there is little basis for concluding that the persons so designated were members of the rabbinic guild of masters. As Cohen (1981-82) in particular has argued, the term tends to be an honorific used for those who materially support the institutions of the Jewish community, that is, the wealthy local Jewish aristocrats. These honorifics seem not to be used for persons with formal leadership functions in the synagogue or community, such as apxwuvaywyo<; or Y€POUOLtXPX1l<;. I surmise that the latter titles placed one at the apogee of the local aristocracy, with ):l1~J.)1 providing a generic honorific for others in this social class. It appears, then, that members of the rabbinic guild of masters appropriated this honorific also for themselves. At the very least, guild masters used "rabbi" as an honorific in their inner-guild social relations. Thereby, they would have made explicit claims, among themselves,
to
aristocratic status on
the grounds of their Torah mastery. Since there is little or no epigraphic or extra-rabbinic literary evidence that anyone else used this honorific when referring to members of the rabbinic class, it seems that the "true-blue" Jewish aristocrats and their clients either did not know of the inner-guild use of the honorific or viewed it as pretentious.
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2.3 When Silence Indeed Speaks Volumes It is hard to see in the foregoing anything other than a negative result. If we did not have early rabbinic literature, we would not have concluded from the material evidence that the early rabbinic class or guild of masters flourished at the dawn of the third and during subsequent centuries CE in Roman Galilee. At this point, however, a shift in perspective is helpful in understanding the relationship between the evidence given in section 1 and that which has been presented thus far in section 2. In section 1 it was argued that the administration of the Palestinian Patriarch, for which the members of the rabbinic guild or class were retainers, would not have displaced a strong tradition of local Jewish government by aristocratic families. Indeed, the material evidence for the Galilee largely represents the initiatives of this local elite. It confirms that our rabbis, qua rabbis, are not part oflocal synagogue leadership and do not belong to the local aristocracy or their councils. Local Jewish judicial bodies, on the other hand, have left no material evidence. So the appointment of members of the rabbinic class to local courts, suggested by evidence adduced in section 1, would not have registered in the material remains. In sum, the material evidence is consistent with the hypothesis that the expertise of members of the newly (re}formed rabbinic guild was "bought and paid for" by the Patriarch's administration specifically, for which they served as a retainer class. Retainers rarely are members of the highest echelons of leadership and power. Retainers are their (senior) functionaries and agents. Again, the material evidence is consistent with this depiction. Our aforementioned negative result seems, at least, not a contradictory one. And while the preceding smacks of being an argument from silence, one must consider that the confirmation of continued communal and synagogue administration by the local aristocracy during the third- and fourth-century Patriarchy is not at all such an argument from silence. 2.4 Forces of Urbanization in Late Second- and Early Third-Century Galilee There is one final perspectival shift in approaching the material evidence that may make realia address the literary evidence concerning the social (re) formation of both the rabbinic guild or class of masters and the Patriarchy at the end of the second century. Tsafrir (1984), Cohen (1992) and Levine
MISHNAH'S RHETORIC
495
(1985), to name only a few scholars writing on the topic during the last decade or so, have all stressed the importance of the social and economic transformation that occurred in second- to fourth-century Galilee as a result of massive urbanization. Cohen and Levine explicitly relate the effects of urbanization to the rise of the rabbinic class and the emergence of the Patriarchy. Hezser (1997), on the other hand, rejects this line of reasoning. She maintains that major urbanization began over a century earlier. In her view, while the process continued for centuries, there was nothing remarkable in second- or third-century developments. Therefore, Hezser does not concede that urbanization of either Roman Palestine or the Galilee might be a factor in the appearance and development of the rabbinic class. I side with Cohen, Tsafrir and Levine for a number of reasons. I note at the outset, however, that the disagreement between Hezser and the others may reflect different emphases given to material evidence in relation to literary testimony. Hezser rejects the opposing view largely by pointing to literary evidence. Indeed, the literary evidence speaks unequivocally about the founding of cities in Palestine in the earlier period, as Hezser indicates. The material evidence for the Galilee, however, demonstrably supports the hypothesis that something new and different in magnitude, even if not in kind, happened with respect to urbanization and related developments from the midsecond century into the third. Ironically, in order to elaborate on this claim, I offer the remarks of Eric Meyers and James Strange (1981). They decry the value of material evidence for elucidating the culture of first-century Galilee, their principal interest: While one of the predominating concerns of the authors has been the recovery of data that would help reconstruct Galilee of the first century CE, it has become abundantly clear that a large body of material from this period may never become available.... The overwhelming bulk of all materials, both architectural and other, coming out of Galilee thus dates from the Middle-Late Roman period and later, that is the second to fourth centuries CEo (Meyers and Strange 1981: 34) To what do Meyers and Strange attribute this ncar-complete material reconstruction of the Galilee? Not to its cataclysmic destruction, but to a massive social migration that required, it would seem, a total remaking of the physical infrastructure. They state: "One reason for this is that the resettlement
496
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of Jews, and possibly of Christians, from the south in the first and second centuries CE caused destruction (archaeologically speaking) of many of the earlier remains" (Meyers and Strange 1981: 34). Given, then, the paucity of material evidence for the first century CE, they attempt to extrapolate as best they can from the late second- and third-century evidence. Therefore, their conclusions about the cultural setting of the Galilee as evinced in archaeological remains would seem particularly germane to our focus on the turn of the third century. Meyers and Strange see confirmed in the material evidence the oft-made distinction between Upper Galilee (with parts of the Golan), on the one hand, and Lower Galilee and the Jordan valley (including the Sea of Galilee), on the other. Archaeological remains for the latter regiot1s support Avi-Yonah's assertion that "as a result of the [Roman] policy of urbanization most of the non-urban territories were transformed into cities in the course of the second and third centuries" (1966: 112, cited in Meyers and Strange 1981: 44). This urbanization probably refers to the Roman system of "toparchy," in the view of Meyers and Strange (1981: 42 n.41). In this they follow A. H. M. Jones (1931: 81; 1971: 274-76). Commerce, banking and (no doubt) tax-collection for a region of towns and villages would have been organized centrally for the greater district at an "urban" capital, with the necessary physical and organizational infrastructure installed therein. Small local markets and commercial infrastructure would have been subsumed within, or supplanted by, the centralized urban facilities. I surmise that with these responsibilities, the urban centre also assumed the task of regulation. Interestingly, Tsafrir notes the significant physical expansion from the mid-second century CE of the urban infrastructures of Palestinian (including Lower Galilee and the Jordan valley) cities. These include the building of the following: an expansive colonnaded
cardo for commercej basilicae for civic and civil functionsj temples for the nonJewish population (including Roman soldiers); theatre, odeon and/or stadium for entertainment; and, of course, synagogues (Tsafrir 1984). I propose that the (re)formation of the Patriarchy under Judah I in Lower Galilee be reassessed in light of these social transformations, so well reflected in the material remains. What would these transformations have meant for local Jewish aristocratic leaders in the towns and villages of an "urbanized" region? What regulatory functions would now have had to be repartitioned
MISHNAH'S RHETORIC
497
between local and urban centres? How would Roman policy with respect to urbanization and "Jewish" settlements have been furthered and best effected through a strong Patriarchy? These are the questions that now seem to come to the fore in light of the changes reflected in the material remains. A systematic attempt to grapple with these questions is obviously beyond what can be achieved in this essay. But the questions themselves contain the seeds of their answers, as a set of opening hypotheses to be assessed. And the outlines of some of those answers are contained in further study of the powers of the Patriarchy summarized near the end of section 1. What now of the members of the rabbinic guild or class of retainers? The "urbanization" of much of the Galilee would have instantly increased the need for a retainer class (on both the Jewish and the non-Jewish sides) to help effect regulated, "centralized" processes. In particular, the appointment, by the "central" authority, of judges (among them rabbis) to local courts makes good sense in the context of Roman-style "urbanization," in order to harmonize local practice with central standards. Perhaps further research into the substance of third-century rabbinic rulings for the contemporary context-that is, rulings that do not simply rehearse and elaborate upon Mishnah's agenda-will confirm this line of reasoning and fill in the details, as suggested by Cohen (1992). My purpose here is not to undertake such an exercise. Rather, I
propose a particular social transformation in Lower Galilee and in the adjacent Jordan valley as an intelligible context for such a study, in the same manner that such a transformation helps render intelligible the development of the rabbinic movement as a rctaim:r functionary body in the Patriarch's administration. 3. Concluding Remarks The material evidence for late-Roman Galilee provides several positive results.
It suggests that members of the rabbinic class were not part of the longstanding local aristocratic leadership in the Galilee. In this, the rabbis are similar to the Patriarchy, with which the social (re)formation of the rabbinic guild or class near the end of the second century is so intimately linked. In addition, the material evidence demonstrates that significantly accelerated processes of Roman-style "urbanization" took hold in the north of Palestine beginning in the second half of the second century CEo The massive migration
498
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of Jews into the Galilee in the same period is also confirmed in the material evidence. The emergence, powers and responsibilities of the Patriarchate seem intelligible in this context, as does the promotion of the type of class/guild expertise modelled in Mishnah, the formative rabbinic document (honorifically attributed by the rabbis to the Patriarch, "Rabbi" Judah I). In short, the material evidence seems to have helped confirm proposals concerning the location of the rabbis within the social hierarchy and matrix oflate second- and third-century Galilee. In this respect, we understand better the social import of their professional expertise as modelled in, and promoted by, Mishnah's rhetoric. Finally, with this enhanced sense of the social location of the rabbinic guild or class, one might suggest yet another role played by Mishnah in the social formation of the rabbinic movement at the beginning of the third century. Mishnah and its promulgation under the alleged authorship ofJudah I might be profitably understood as "myth-making." That is, Mishnah provides a myth that serves the social formation of the early rabbinic movement and the Patriarch's (reputedly) intimate place within the rabbinic movement. We are used to seeing myths in narrative form. But that need not always be the case. Narrative myths link powerful symbolic representations in a sequenced story. Mishnah achieves a similar result without recourse to story. Mishnah's mythology functions to link a number of core symbolic elements: (a) the Temple with its authoritative norrws and leadership; (b) rabbinic guild expertise as represented in Mishnah's rhetoricj (c) an alleged sequence of named rabbinic tradents spanning the period from the Jewish revolt to Judah Ij and (d) the Patriarchy of Judah I and his alleged predecessors. themselves similarly depicted as linked to the aforementioned, named, rabbinic tradents. The social matrix and situation revealed in the material evidence-traditional local aristocracies existing apart from. and prior to, a well-established Patriarchy and a rabbinic class of retainers, on the one hand, and the forces of Roman-style urbanization, on the other-are suggestive indeed of the social function of such a "mythology" within the rabbinic movement. Without a doubt much systematic research must ensue to move from that which is suggested by our inquiry to what would count as having been demonstrated. It is my hope that this essay has tempted others, in addition to myself, to undertake such studies.
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References Alan, Gedaliah [1980] The Jews in Their Land in the Talmudic Age. Trans. Gershon 1989 Levi. Reprint. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Avi-Yonah, Michael 1966 The Holy Land from the Persian to the Arab Conquests (536B.C.E.-640 C.E.). Grand Rapids: Baker. 1984 [1976] The)ews Under Roman and Byzantine Rule: A Political History of Palestine from the Bar Kokhba War to the Arab Conquest. Reprint. Jerusalem: Magnes. Ben-Dov, M. 1981 "Fragmentary Inscriptions from the Synagogue at Tiberias." In Lee I. Levine (ed.) , Ancient Synagogues Revealed, 157 -59. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society. Cohen, Shaye J. D. 1981-82 "Epigraphical Rabbis." Jewish Quarterly Review 72: 1-17. 1992 "The Place of the Rabbi in Jewish Society of the Second Century." In Lee 1. Levine (ed.), The Galilee in Late Antiquity, 157-74. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Dothan, M. 1981 "The Synagogue at Hammath Tiberias." In Levine, Ancient Synagogues
Revealed, 63-69. Douglas, Mary Natural Symbols: Explorations in Cosmology. London: Barrie and 1970 Rockliff. Foerster, G. 1981 "A Survey of Ancient Diaspora Synagogues." InLevine, Ancient Synagogues Revealed, 164-71. "Ancient Synagogues in the Land ofIsrael" [Hebrew]. Reprinted in 1986 Safrai, The Ancient Synagogue, 63-68. 1992 "Ancient Synagogues in the Galilee." In Levine, The Galilee in Late Antiquity, 289-319. Frey, Jean Baptiste. ed. 1936-52 Corpus inscriptionum iudaicarum. 2 vols. Rome: Pontificio istituto di arc.heologia cristiana. Goodblatt, David M.
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The Monarchic Principle: Studies inJewish Self-Government in Antiquity. Tubingen: Mohr.
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Goodenough, Erwin R.
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1983
State and Society in Roman Galilee, A.D. 132-212. Totowa: Rowman
and Allanheld for the Oxford Centre for Postgraduate Studies. "The Roman State and the Jewish Patriarch in the Third Century." In Levine, The Galilee in Late Antiquity, 127-39. Hczser, Catherine
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The Social Structure of the Rabbinic Movement in Roman Palestine. Tiibingen: Mohr.
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"The Urbanization of Palestine." Journal of Roman Studies 21: 78-85. l [9371 The Cities of the Eastern Roman Provinces. Second ed. rev. by Michael A vi -Yonah et al. Oxford: Clarendon. Kant, Laurence H. 1987 "Jewish Inscriptions in Greek and Latin." In Hildegard Temporini and Wolfgang Haase (eds.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der romischen Welt, 2.20.2.671-713. Berlin/NewYork: De Gruyter. Kloner, Amos 1981 "Ancient Synagogues in Israel: An Archaeological Survey." In Levine, Ancient Synagogues Revealed, 11-18. Kraabel, A. Thomas 1981 "The Social System of Six Diaspora Synagogues." In Joseph Gutmann (ed.), Ancient Synagogues: The State of Research, 79-91. Chico: Scholars Press. Kraeling, Carl H. 1956 The Synagogue. The Excavations at Dura Europos. Final Report VIII, Part I. New Haven: Yale University Press. Levine, Lee I. "The Jewish Patriarch (Nasi) in Third Century Palestine." In 1979 Temporini and Haase. Aufstieg und Niedergang der romischen Welt.
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"Ancient Synagogues-A Historical Introduction." In Levine,
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[Hebrew]. Jerusalem: Yad Yitzhaq hen Zvi. "The Sages and the Synagogue in Late Antiquity: The Evidence of the Galilee." In Levine, The Galilee in Late Antiquity, 201-22. "The Status of the Patriarch in the Third and Fourth Centuries: Sources and Methodology." Journal of Jewish Srudies 47: 1-32.
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The Rhetoric of the Babylonian Talmud, Its Social Meaning and Context.
Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. "Whence the Rabbis? From Coherent Description to Fragmented Reconstructions." Studies in Religion/Sciences religieuses 26: 275-95. Meyers, Eric M. and James F. Strange 1981 Archaeology, the Rabbis, and Early Christianity. Nashville/London: Abingdon/SCM. Naveh, Joseph "Ancient Synagogue Inscriptions." In Levine, Ancient Synagogues 1981 1997
Revealed, 133-39. Neusner, Jacob
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Judaism: The Evidence of the Mishnah. Chicago: University Df Chicago
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The Ancient Synagogue: Selected Studies [Hebrew). Jerusalem: Zalman
Shazar Centre. Saldarini, Anthony J. 1988 Pharisees, Scribes and Sadducees in Palestinian Socieey: A Sociological Approach. Wilmington: Glazier. Schwabe, Moshe and I3aruch Lifshitz, eds. 1974 [1967] BcthShc'arim, Vo!' 2: The Greeldnscriptions.Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society and the Institute of Archaeology, Hebrew University. Sussman, ]. 1981 "The Inscription in the Synagogue at Rehob." In Levine, Ancient
Synagogues Revealed, 146-53. Tsafrir, Yoram The Land of Israel from the Destruction of the Second Temple to the 1984 Muslim Conquest, Vo!' 2: Archaeology and Art [Hebrew). Jerusalem: Yad Yitzhaq ben Zvi. Urman, D. 1981 "Jewish Inscriptions from the Village of Dabbura in the Golan." In Levine, Ancient Synagogues Revealed, 154-56.
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Van der Horst, Pieter W. 1991 Ancient Jewish Epitaphs: An Introductory Survey of a Millennium of Jewish Funerary Epigraphy (300 BCE-700 CE). Kampen: Kok Pharos. Weiss, Z. 1992 "Social Aspects of Burial in Beth She'arim: Archaeological Finds and Talmudic Sources." In Levine, The Galilee in Late Antiquity, 357-71.
PART FIVE
TEXT AND ARTIFACT IN THE GRECO .. ROMAN WORLD
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28
SOME THOUGHTS ON THEURGY ALAN
F. SEGAL
It is a pleasure to contribute this essay to the celebration of Peter Richardson's career and influence on scholarship. Even before we became colleagues at the University of Toronto, his work on the people of God stimulated my own research and helped me
to
conceptualize Christian self-definition. After I left
Toronto, we continued our conversations. It is a tribute to our friendship that it continued to develop so well even after I defected from the friendly and comfortable surroundings ofToronto to the relatively less comfortable position in New York. Our discussions and challenges to each other have continued to help my work, so I present to him some further thoughts on the assumptions behind our definitions of magic and religion, a topic that I first pursued while in Toronto (Segal 1981).
It is impossible to enter the field of religion without revealing some of one's deepest-held feelings, at first often not fully articulated even to oneself. It continues to be the case, in scholarship as in life, that one person's magic is another's religion. So, to define religion we must not only ask about the assumptions made by ordinary people who operate in a world where both magic and religion exist, but also, equally, ask ourselves what we are assuming about the nature of magic and religion. To do so, we can subject the definitions of other scholars, including classicists and anthropologists, to the same analysis and compare our stance to theirs. Although many different definitions of "magic" have been offered throughout the history of religious and anthropological research, no one definition has reached general use. Magic's relation to religion and science has never been clearly delineated. In our society both religious leaders and
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scholars I delineate the differences between magic and religion for their own purposes. 2 Hence there is always a natural bias toward clear distinctions between the two. Both anthropologists and religionists propose careful definitions in order to carry out their analyses. For instance, Bronislaw Malinowski (1944: 200) defined the difference between magic and religion as sharply as possible. Religion refers to the fundamental issues of human existence, while magic always turns around specific, concrete and detailed problems. Religion is concerned with questions of ultimate concern-salvation, death, the meaning of existence-while magic is concerned with immediate goals-control of the weather, good health, achieving a specific position. Magic is characterized by manipulation and attempts to control nature. Religion is expressive, magic instrumental. This should appear sensible to us, since it amounts to a concise statement of one of our definitions of magic. A surprising consequence of this definition is that magic can be viewed as an early form of science. Neat though it is, such a clear-cut distinction leads to problems in studying the ancient world where no clear-cut definitions existed. Some figures in the ancient world sought out clear distinctions between the two, while others sought to erase the distinction. We shall have to specify where and when each strategy was effective. 3 But even in our own culture there are other ways to construe magic-as false causation, as entertainment, as wonder and miracle, or as subversion. I have argued elsewhere (1981) that no definition of magic can be universally applicable because "magic" cannot and should not be construed as a properly
See especially M. Smith (1973; 1978) and]. Z. Smith (1975; 1977). Remus (1983) outlines and surveys the traditional approach in admirable detail. He shows that, for example, K. H. Rengstorfin Kittel's Worterbuch and C. F. D. Moule attempt to distinguish between Chtistian miracles and pagan wonders on the basis of vocabulary, hence preserving an essential difference between them in the texts. His conclusion is that the texts evince more fluid use of the words than either Rengstorf or Moule allow. See also van der Loos (1968); Martroye (1930); Tiede (1972); Holladay (1977); Theissen (1974); and Kee (1983). 2 See Benedict (1935); more recently: Wax and Wax (1962; 1963); Douglas (1970a; 1970b); and Mair (1969). An interesting structural analysis is suggested by Leach (1976). 3 See Remus (1983) for a history of research. It should be noted that many anthropologists are inclined to resist a sharp distinction between magic and religion (e.g., Douglas 1970a: 74-76). Very often it seems to me as though theoretical work has tended to separate the two phenomena while fieldwork has tended to combine them. My point is to recommend that we distinguish between the two enterprises and give more attention to how the term is actually used within the culture under consideration.
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scientific term. Its meaning changes as the context in which it is used changes. No single definition of magic can be absolute, since all definitions of magic are relative to the context. Furthermore, because we normally think we do know the difference between magic and religion, it is my contention that we have been misled by our own cultural assumptions into making too strict a distinction between magic and religion in the Hellenistic world. As we shall see, in some places the distinction between magic and religion will depend purely on the social context. One way in which scholars have recently tried to resolve the problem is to consider distinctions between magic and religion as unscientific. There is something valuable in this approach. For instance, in his very fine book on curse tablets and binding spells, John Gager decides to ignore the word "magic" because the distinction between magic and religion causes too many distortions in the data to be useful (1992: 24) j Rebecca Lesses (1998) titles her book Ritual
Practices to Gain Power; David Frankfurter includes all magic under the title Religion in Roman Egypt (1998); Marvin Meyer and Richard Smith caU their book Ancient Christian Magic: Coptic Texts of Ritual Power (1994). This strategy tacitly acknowledges that, no matter what our culture thinks, those who practise magic think of themselves as performing a legitimate religiOUS service and, indeed, that there are many cultures that make no practical distinction between magic and religion in our sense. The strategy of ignoring our culture's distinctions, which thus takes a strong position on religious relativity, is an especially good strategy for studying cultures like ancient Egypt where there is only one word encompassing both magic and religion: heka (Assmann 1997). On the other hand, we miss something important about the religious life of the period if we ignore the term "magic" where the cultures themselves do use it. Besides not imposing our own distinctions on the data, which is partly what the scholars above astutely recognize, we must be sure we are catching the dynamics of the term where it is used. Most of Hellenistic culture found no problem at all in using the term as well as various other terms that describe rituals that we might call magical. In fact, that is what makes the term "magic" so interesting: it often implies a difference of opinion between the various speakers or agents in a situation that is either not essential or, at best, very difficult and subtle to understand. So we have to acknowledge that magic may encompass a particular segment of the religious world, defined locally by
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specific criteria which are not clear to us from the start and hence not universal. We must also recognize that we cannot do without this particularly thorny and difficult word, though this would be the easiest way out of the maze and is the one taken recently by many scholars. Magic functions both negatively and positively in a society. Construed as a kind of religion, it can have positive value in a society; indeed, when magic relies on ancient notions of purity and power, as it often does in Judaism, for instance, it supports the most conservative religious notions in a society (Swartz 1995). We may, as Graf has done (1997), begin with the official definitions of magic in the late-Hellenistic world. That means citing the Roman legal tradition: magic was subversive; it was outlawed because it was understood to be malevolent. When magic is mentioned in Roman laws it is in a negative context. Indeed, a consensus was established early that viewed the perceived harmful acts (and only harmful acts) of magic as criminal. The Laws of the Twelve Tablets (451-450 BCE) expressly prohibit anyone from enticing his neighbour's crops into his own field by magic. Furthermore, the maleficent arts were often considered to be identical
to
death by poisoning, and punishable
with equal severity (M. Smith 1978: 75-80). An actual trial for alleged violation of these laws was held before Spurius Albinus in 157 BCE (Pliny, Hist.
Nat. 18.41-43). Cornelius Hispallus expelled the Chaldean astrologers from Rome in 139 BCE-ostensibly on the grounds that they were magicians (see Tavener 1966: 13; Lowe 1929). In 33 BCE astrologers and magicians are explicitly mentioned as having been driven from Rome. Twenty years later, Augustus ordered all books on occult subjects to be burned. In 16 CE magicians and astrologers were expelled from Italy, an edict reinforced by other emperors in 69 CE and 89 CEo Later, Constantine issued a ruling to cover all charges of magic. In it he distinguished between helpful charms, which he considered not punishable, and antagonistic spells: If any are discovered to have been using magic arts so as to threaten men's safety or pervert modest persons to libidinous practices, their science is to be punished and deservedly penalized according to the severest laws. However, no accusations are to be heard against remedies sought out for human bodies or, in rural districts, to protect mature grapes from fear of rains or from being crushed by the pounding of hailstones. (M. Smith 1978: 76)
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Several observations can be made on the basis of the history of the crime of magic. First, magic was clearly viewed as efficacious; otherwise it would have been prosecuted as fraudulent. 4 Second, though illegal, it must have been widely practised, or at least believed to be so, to have occasioned such frequent condemnation. Third, it is the maleficium, witchcraft, that is proscribed; presumably what we call "white" or non-aggressive magic was no crime, although, to be sure, much that was called "religion" might appear to us to be magic. Indeed, there was no government interest in distinguishing magic from religion, as long as harm was done to no one. Notice, however, that once the notion of harm is broadened to mean harm to the social fabric, a great deal of religion could be linked to magic in order to condemn it. "White," or non-aggressive, magic could easily appear to be religion by some standards. The great witches of the classical tradition-including Medea, Circe, Erichtho and Canidia-were literary creations and usually women, but the fear of witchcraft and the use of sorcery were quite common, and men practised sorcery extensively as an occupation. The male-constructed female witches tell us something about men's fantasies, especially with regard to women's resort to
supernatural aid in attracting men. It may tell us much more. 5 Among the Romans, especially those in the lower classes, sorcery, though
illegal, was often practised or hired as a service by people who were in situations of competition or uncertainty. The charioteer owed his position to personal skill, which was both increased and frequently attacked by magic. So it is not infrequent to find this sort of evocative masterpiece among the collections of curse tablets: I conjure you up, holy beings and holy names; join in aiding this spell and bind, enchant, thwart, strike, overturn, conspire against, destroy, kill, and break Eucherius, the charioteer and all his horses tomorrow in the circus at Rome. May he not leave the barriers well; may he not be quick in the contest; may he not outstrip anyone; may he not make the turns well; may he not win any prizes; and, if he has pressed someone hard, may he not come off the victor; and, if he follows someone from behind, may he not overtake him; but may he meet with an accident, may he be bound, may he
4 For a rare example of the charge of fraud, see Lucian, Alexarnier of Abonuteichus; also M. Smith (1978: 88). 5 See the dissertation of Kim Stratton at Columbia University, in progress.
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be broken, may he be dragged along by your power in the morning and afternoon races. Now! Now! Quickly! QUickly!6 This defixio is clearly aggressive magic, it is clearly maleficium, and it is definitely illegal. No one would have practised it with the impression that they were practising a legal and wholesome religious rite, however richly deserved the damage to the intended victim. Peter Brown gives an explanation for the frequency of references to chariot races in the tablets (1970; see also Mair 1969; Parrinder 1963). In his view, the competition faced by the charioteer extended beyond his time in the circus. The charioteer was an undefined mediator in urban society. He was both the client oflocal aristocracies and the leader of organized groups of fans. As a public figure with a considerable popular following, he became a potential leader in urban rioting (MacMullen 1966). Because of the anxiety and charisma associated with such an uncertain life, some charioteers and many of their fans were driven to seek sorcerers. This keen observation anticipates the necessity for more social-scientific attention to the phenomenon of Hellenistic magic. Thus, when magic was viewed as benign it might easily have been coterminous with religion, whereas in the crucial contexts where magic was viewed as antagonistic and illegal it was carefully differentiated. The definition of this crime of "black" magic was made on the basis of its presumed injury, and it was treated in many respects like other practices banned for the protection of the body politic. Yet, it is clear that, besides physical damage, other kinds of damage could be called "magic," especially when there was no other legal remedy for this. For instance, although the Chaldean astrologers functioned within a religious context and presumably were not harmful by definition, once their ideology was deemed dangerous they could be expelled as magicians on the ground that they presented a danger to society. This illustrates Morton Smith's observation that, while in our culture "magic" has the connotation of trickery, in Roman culture it often also had the connotation of subversion (1973: 221). Common sense tells us that, whenever an accusation of magic was made, a distinction between magic and legitimate forms of religion was being made by the accuser. The accuser was claiming that the accused meant to harm
6 Lewis and Reinhold (1955: 570). See also Dodds (1968: 204·206).
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society. It is not necessarily true, however, that the accuser would say that the "magic" practised was not religion, since the Persian magi, Jews, mathernatici and philosophers were often grouped together in a ban, but only that the practice was aggressive or primitive. Therefore, the defendant in an accusation of magic might have had a different view of what he or she was doing.
It was as clear to Brown (1970) as it was to me that social science provides us with a way to cut through these various problems of translation between our assumptions about the world and the still-mysterious ways of the ancients and other cultures. He published a very important and widely quoted article in which he took up E. E. Evans-Pritchard's study of the Azande (1937). Evans- Pritchard cautioned that his perceptions about sorcery and magic in Azande culture should be seen within the Azande's entire system of beliefs and not in isolation. He then pointed out that the Azande indeed had two different words for the phenomenon: (1) the conscious performance of illegal rites and spells, which he translated as "sorcery"; and (2) another almost untranslatable term, mangu, an inner and sometimes unconscious supernatural ability to produce injury in others, which he translated as "witchcraft." In the Azande world, mangu entails no rites, and a person might even possess it unawares. On the basis of this analysis of Azande life, Brown produced a seminal article on witchcraft in the Hellenistic period, a study peppered with insights and new texts. Unfortunately, it also reproduces a common mistake of studies based on Evans-Pritchard's work. In place of a structural analysis of late antiquity's use of the terms, it imposes Azande definitions of magic on a culture that made none of the same assumptions, so it does nothing to resolve the confusion we all feel when trying to analyze the phenomena. In fairness to Brown, who is one of the foremost scholars of our generation, it was a rather common result of the initial enthusiasm in seeking to pursue Evans-Pritchard's insight. The easiest place to see the paradox of the definition of magic is in the magical papyri (Preisendanzand Henrichs 1973-74). In these documents, many of the recipes and spells are harmful; some are not; and some, including the following, seem to imply a distinctly "religious" sensibility. The papyri use the terms "magic" and "magical" (1.127, 131; 4.210, 2319, 2453), while the practitioners call themselves magoi, "magicians" (4.243, 2081, 2289). But there is within the papyri occasional reference to rites and ideas that were part of the recognized and sophisticated religious life of the time. The celebrants pray that,
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although born mortal, they may be transformed by the god, whose presence they seek after having made the appropriate consecrations. The process of immortalization is accomplished through a heavenly journey, culminating in a face-to-face vision of the divinity in which the divinity empowers the journey and appears to confer immortality: So stand still and at once draw breath from the divine into yourself, while you look intently. When your soul is restored, say: ... (628-30) And at once produce a long bellowing sound, straining your belly, that you may excite the five senses: Bellow long until the conclusion, and again kiss the amulets and say: MOKRIMO PHERIMOPHERERI, life of me, N, Stay, dwell in my soul, Do not abandon me. (704-10) 7 In this part of the document, known first as the Mithras Liturgy, the salvation is brought by Helios who grants both immortality and a new birth, implying a new horoscope as well:
o Lord, while being born again, I am passing away; while growing and having grown, I am dying; while being born from a life generating birth, I am passing on, released to death-as you have founded, as you have decreed, and have established the mystery. (718-23)8 The expected result of the long ceremony is not merely to understand the future, although that was involved as well. The expected result is to gain an immortal rebirth (647) or immortalization. The rebirth entails a new horoscope and is described often as a mystery. Furthermore, the adept's vision is described as E1t01t't'Euaw (504), a technical term for participation in the mystery cults. The adept appears to gain his immortality through what "he" sees and experiences. He rises in an ecstatic heavenly journey by appeasing the various tutelary divinities. His soul is restored through breathing in the divine (630). At the end he appears to be vouchsafed a vision of the great god Helios Mithras, of whom the magician is the apxayyEAOC;. This is as spiritual an idea as one finds in the religious world oflate antiquity.
7 The so-called "Mithras Liturgy," from which the above is taken, can be found at 4.475-829 in Preisendanz and Henrichs (197.3-74). The translation is from Meyer (1976: 19). See also Betz (1986; translation of the Mithras Liturgy here also by Meyer). 8 Meyer (1976: 21). This was the end of the Mithras Liturgy, according to Dieterich (1910).
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Suffice it to say that we have discovered a document in which what I would call magic and religion are extraordinarily well mixed. 9 Apparently, in the Hellenistic world, as in our own, the definition of magic was not firmly fixed; it was in fact used by a variety of different people in different situations with different outcomes in mind. This is not surprising because the Hellenistic world was a complex and varied assemblage of cultures, resembling our own in its development of cosmopolitanism and individualism. 10 In order to address the meaning of "magic" in this world, then, we have to discuss both the ostensible definition of magic and the many social contexts in which magic existed. In order to specify further the conditions under which "black" magic and religion were distinguished in the Hellenistic world, we have to review a few actual cases of witchcraft accusations. The rhewr Libanius successfully defended himself against the charge of sorcery several times (Orat. I.vii-xii, 31, 35, 39-41, 61, 93, 127-29). His righteous indignation at being so wrongly accused, an insult to his ability as a rhetor, tempts one to view him as a strict rationalist. But this is far from the case. When his old injury (from being struck by lightning) begins to act up, causing him to suffer unsettling dreams, he suspects sorcery. Finding a dead chameleon in his classroom, he becomes convinced that he has been made a victim of some malevolent force invoked by an enemy. On this basis he is able to blame recent losses in debate on the sorcery of his opponents instead of their superior skill. This phenomenon has
9 This paradox is also illustrated by the scholarly argument about the Mithras Liturgy. In 1903 Dieterich proposed that 11.475-834 of the Paris Magical Papyrus were part of the official liturgy of the Mithras cult, hence religion. Since the publication of Dieterich's book, many scholars, notably Cumont and Reitzenstein, have criticized his theory. (See the Nachtrage to Dieterich's third, 1923, edition.) By the third edition, Dieterich was forced to moderate his claims to admit that the Egyptian magicians had altered the text substantially. Most others have seen the text as Egyptian magic pure and simple, although all have seen significant parallels with the hermetic writings and solar piety. The argument has never been satisfactorily resolved. Dieterich's view that the document represents a religious mystery is partially sound, yet important aspects of his argument for its mithraic origin can be dismissed. What is important for our current purposes is to note that scholars themselves cannot decide whether the text is magical or religious. The complementary problem is found in some of Morton Smith's writings. Smith notes (1978: 367·70) that the ascent motif is characteristic of magical rites and tries to maintain that Jesus is a magician because he sees evidence of the same practices in the historical Jesus. 10 See, for example, Brehier (1965). I am glad to see thatthis is also Betz's opinion in his new introduction ro The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation (1986: xlv-xlvi). Note his suggestions and his description of the mixing of motifs.
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also been admirably discussed by Brown (1970).1l Brown sees Libanius as an example of how belief in sorcery coalesced around the experience of competition and uncertainty-conditions that were aggravated in the third century in a society becoming more and more committed to a fixed hierarchy in church and state (1970: 25; for the psychological functions of witchcraft see also Kluckhohn 1944: 79-128). Certainly this is a case of how sorcery "explains unfortunate events," to rely on Kluckhohn's functionalist description of Navaho witchcraft. The sorcery attacks can be seen to counter and explain misfortune in competitive situations in ways that allowed the ostensible victims to escape without damage to their feelings of professional competency. In this case, magic or sorcery is seen as incompatible with religion because it is aggressive and mean. The accusation is made against colleagues, and presumably, as in the case of Libanius, it was quite straightforward. In other, more revealing contexts, the definition of magic is the subject of the controversy. This is illustrated by the experience of Apuleius. Archaeological finds from Apuleius's time increasingly show the use of expensive media like papyrus and parchment linked to magic. Amulets begin to be fashioned of jewels, gold or silver. All of this suggests that the people with more money were beginning to become interested in magic. When Apuleius is accused of witchcraft by the relatives of his newly married wife, he expresses an ambiguous opinion about llaYE(a, which will help us clarify how "magic" and "religion" were differentiated: I will now deal with the actual charge of magic. You spared no violence in fanning the flame of hatred against me .... I should therefore like to ask his most learned advocates how precisely they would define a magician? If what I read in a large number of authors be true, namely that "magician" is the Persian word for priest. what is there criminal in being a priest and having due knowledge, science and skill? ... 12 But. if you accusers of mine, after the fashions of the common herd. define a
11 In addition to this valuable article see MacMullen (1966). 12 His opinion of the magi was shared widely. When Pseudo-Aristode affirms that the magi are not acquainted with 'tTJV YOT)nKTJV f!(XYE\(XV. he is referring to the orthodox clergy of Persia. In many places. Greek authors go out of their way to declare that the magi practise j.L(XyEt(X, not VOT)'tEt(x; therefore, they are not magicians. See Bidez and Cumont (1938: 1.144 n.2). In point offact sorcery was equally demonic in Persia, where it was considered to be service to the devas (demons) by the druj (evil ones).
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magician as one who, by communion or speech with the immortal gods, has the power to do all the marvels that he will through a strange power of incantation, I really wonder that they are not afraid to attack one whom they acknowledge to be so powerful. (Apol. 25-26)
After Apuleius-a young man with good connections, a good education, but not much money-had managed to marry an elderly woman of considerable fortune, her relatives feared that they might be disinherited. Yet Apuleius had violated no specific law, so they attempted to press their claim by maintaining that he had used magic to win his wealthy wife. This is surely an example of the use of the charge of magic to garner an advantage in an ambiguous and threatening situation. The threat to the traditional expectation about inheritance is countered by a charge that the social order was upset by demonic action. More interesting still is Apuleius's reply to the charge. In wonderful rhetorical fashion, he rebukes the illogicality of his accusers. If "magicus" is a Persian priest (magus or magos), he has done no harm. On the other hand, if it is what the common herd thinks it is, he marvels that they are not afraid to attack someone they acknowledge to be so powerful! Apuleius's usage also presages a growing upper-class flirtation with "magical" arts. But Apuleius's complete view of magic per se is expressed in his picaresque novel, The Golden Ass. The hero of this novel, Lucius, is led by a mistress (herself a servant of a witch) into careless experimentation with magic. The result is that Lucius is transformed into an ass, a predicament that continues until the end of the novel, when he finally regains his original shape because of a rose-leaf antidote. Perhaps Apuleius's story about a human in the shape of a donkey made the Romans behave more circumspectly in the presence of their beasts. But it was more than a comic invention, a burlesque novel. The antidote to the witchcraft is a very serious account of the hero's salvation through the intervention ofIsis, whose price for salvation is devotion to her mysteries. In other words, Lucius's magical misadventures end only when he converts to a serious religion, surrendering his life to the cult of Isis. After this is accomplished, the priest of Isis delivers a speech which explains the basic meaning of the whole story:
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After enduring many different troubles and after being driven by the wildest storms of Fortune and her heaviest gales, at last, Lucius, you have come to the haven of Rest and the altar of Mercy. Your high birth was of no avail to you nor even your position in society, nor yet the learning in which you are so rich, but on the slippery path of your hotheaded youth you fell into low pleasures and you have gained a grim reward for your ill-starred curiosity. Nevertheless the blindness of Fortune, while it tortured you with the worst of dangers, yet led you in its unforeseeing evil to your state of religious bliss. Let her quit now and rage in her wildest frenzy and seek another object for her cruelty. For hostile fate has no power over those whose lives have been claimed by the majesty of our goddess. What avail to wicked Fortune were the robbers, the wild beasts, the slavery, the hardships of journeys that winded on and back, and the daily fear of death? Now you have been received into the protection of a Fortune who is not blind, but sees, and who illumines the other gods too with the radiance of her light. Show, then, a happier face in keeping with the white cloak you have assumed. Follow the procession of the Savior Goddess with triumphant step. Let the unbelievers take note, let them take note and acknowledge their mistake: behold, here is Lucius! He has been freed from his former sufferings and, rejoicing in the providence of mighty Isis, he is victorious over his Fortune. But to be safer and better equipped, enroll your name in this holy military service, whose solemn oath you were asked to take not long ago, and vow yourself from this moment to the ministry of our religion. Accept of your own free will the yoke of service. For when you have begun to serve the goddess, then will you better realize the result of your freedom. (Met. 11.15; Griffiths 1975: 87-89)
Apuleius's final understanding of "magic" is negative. Magic represents the world under the power of blind chance (fortuna, 'tUX'll), a world in which Lucius had been enslaved until the grace of the goddess saved him. Just as magic represents the ill-starred world under the influence of fate, so the religion ofIsis is defined as the special knowledge and care of the goddess that saves humanity from fate, changing it into providence or destiny (providentia). Lucius's salvation is through the mystery cult ofisis, whose public ceremonies were known to all in the Hellenistic world but whose secrets were known only to the initiates. We have no better description of the inner ritual or goals of the mystery religions than Apuleius's Book It.1t is this specific characteristic of the cult that makes it a legitimate religion for Apuleius.
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The striking aspect of Apuleius's account, however, is how completely it resembles the experience of the practitioner in the magical papyri. The magical adept, like Lucius, is seeking the power to be free of the fates and demons, through a heavenly ascent. Thus, while the insider in this case distinguishes between magic and religion, his description of true religion phenomenologically closely matches some aspects of magical practice elsewhere. The one word that best describes this new entrepreneurial spirituality of late antiquity is theurgy Oohnston 1997). Theurgy, more than anything else, represents the force that transformed "magical" acts into acceptable religion in the Roman Empire. It is a neologism that implied a distinction between technique and theory in the study of the divine. The theurgist, as opposed to the theologian, not only studied the divine arts but learned how to control and "work" the gods (Luck 1989). Indeed, since epyov can easily refer to a ritual in Greek, it also implies a religious praxis. Theurgy itself had been brought into the Roman Empire through the agency of the ehaldeans. As far as we know, the earliest person claiming this art was Julianus, a contemporary of Marcus Aurelius (M. Smith 1963). He, in turn, claimed an association with an earlier Julianus, who gave him the secrets of the Chaldean oracles. The technique of theurgy became more and more associated with the late-Neoplatonic school, to such an extent that Proc1us could define theurgy grandly: "la puissance theurgique, laquelle est meilleure que toute sagesse et toute science humaine, puisqu'elle concentre en eHe Ies avantages de la divination, les formes purificatrices de l'accomplissement des rites et tous les effets sans exception de l'inspiration qui rend posse de du divin" (Plat. Theal. 1.25; trans. H. G. Saffray and L. G. Westerink). This explains why "magic," and with it the notion of personal religious entrepreneurship, became acceptable in some aristocratic circles. Simply, it became a kind of religion, appealing to philosophers as well as their aristocratic students because of its promises of spiritual power together with a kind of independence from organized cults, although theurgy was also practised within philosophical schools or religious conventicles of other types. Theurgy involved ecstatic trances and seances to unite devotees with the god and to gain specific powers from that god (Shaw 1995; Luck 1989). Hekhaloth texts in Jewish mysticism and also the documents known as the Hermetic literature (Fowden 1993: 126-31) are very much of a piece with the theurgic phenomenon. They all involve the usc of trance to ascend to the
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heavens and accomplish some religious end. It seems clear that, by the end of the fourth century, whatever their diverse beginnings these would have all been seen as similar phenomena, in the way that we today can see their relationship. The relationship between theurgy and Hekhaloth mysticism is especially interesting. For instance, one of the procedures noted by Leda Ciraolo (1995) to bring down a star or, in one case, the constellation Orion as a rcap€opOC;, resembles to a very great degree the kinds of procedures used in Merkabah mysticism
to
swear an angel to do one's bidding. 13 Philosophers of the fourth
century were not the academics we expect them to be today, but were membt:rs of philosophical communities that look very much like religious voluntary associations (6u.too\). Certainly the Jews who performed the Hekhaloth ascensions were also members of a highly defined religious community. In addition, the Poimandres, Corpus Herrneticum 1, as well as tractate 7 in that collection, make it clear that the speaker belongs to a like-minded community of people with a common ethici here there is a hint of a missionary impulse and perhaps even a kind of eschatology. It would be hard to say which of these phenomena was earlier but origin is not the issue. Moreover, thinking of origins as an explanation is a mistake. Likely the best explanation is to be found in the needs of late antiquity to transcend the earth that was increasingly seen as polluted, and to rise to the realm of the stars where immortality was located. Even in this context, however, the term "magic" often continued to be viewed with contempt. Porphyry accused Iamblichus of dealing only with demons and so forced Iamblichus to write a long justification of theurgy as a means of controlling gods as well as demons. It is not difficult to see in this conflict an attempt to define magic again. But note that the difference between magic and religion in this case is a matter of degree only. Iamblichus is actually defending himself against the charge that he is merely dealing in magic by attempting to show that his beliefs form a philosophically coherent system and involve communications with the gods, not merely the inferior demons. This is a clue to the most obvious reason why the definition of magic continued to be ambiguous even in non-aggressive contexts. It appears that magic was often tacitly defined as worship of demons, while religion was
13 See the description of the rite in Preisendanz and Henrichs (1973-74: 1.1-42; 42-195). Compare it with the description of bringing down an angel in the Sefer Harazim and Sefer Hakhalot to swear him to accomplish one's bidding.
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defined as worship of the gods. Since both gods and demons were most often invisible. their effects alone being palpable, it was difficult to tell who was at work. Before it was clear whether "magic" or "religion" was the best explanation of a marvellous event, a complicated social ambiguity had to be resolved. The most important example of this distinction may be found in Porphyry's Ufe
of Plotinus 10:
Among those making profession of philosophy at Rome was one Olympius, an Alexandrian, who had been for a while a pupil of Ammonius. This man's jealous envy showed itself in continual insolence, and finally he grew so bitter that he even ventured sorcery, seeking to crush Plotinus by star-spells. But he found his experiments recoiling upon himself, and he confessed to his associates that Plotinus possessed "a mighty soul, so powerful as to be able to hurl every assault back upon those that sought his ruin." Plotinus had felt the operation and declared that at that moment Olympius' limbs "were convulsed and his body shriveling like a money-bag pulled tight." Olympius, perceiving on several attempts that he was endangering himself rather than Plotinus, desisted. In fact, Plotinus possessed by birth something more than is accorded to other men. An Egyptian priest who had arrived in Rome and, through some friend, had been presented to the philosopher, became desirous of displaying his powers to him and offered to evoke a visible manifestation of Plot inus' presiding spirit. Plotinus readily consented and the evocation was made in the Temple ofIsis, the only place, they say, which the Egyptian could find pure in Rome. At the summons, a divinity appeared, not a being of the spirit ranks, and the Egyptian exclaimed: "You are singularly blessed; the guiding-spirit within you is none of the lower degree, but a God." It was not possible, however, to interrogate or even to contemplate this God any further, for the priest's assistant, who had been holding the birds to prevent them from flying away, strangled them, whether through jealousy or in terror. Thus, Plotinus had for in-dwelling spirit a being of the more divine degree, and he kept his own divine spirit unceasingly intent upon that inner presence. It was this preoccupation that led him to write his treatise upon Our Tutelary Spirit. an essay in the explanation of the differences among spirit-guides. Amelius was scrupulous in observing the Day of the New Moon and other holy days, and once asked Plotinus to join in such celebration. Plotinus refused: "It is for such beings to come to me. not for me to go to them." What was in his mind in so lofty an utterance we could not explain to ourselves and we dared not ask him. (trans. S. MacKenna and B. S. Page)
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There are very complicated and ambiguous relationships between magic and religion here. In the first paragraph Plotinus's power is distinguished from pure magic on the basis of superiority in quantity, not essence. Therefore, either Plotinus is being called a magician or Porphyry sees a continuum between religion and magic. In the second and succeeding paragraphs, it is clear that the latter alternative is to be chosen. Plotinus is to be distinguished from magicians because his power (as a god or coming from a god) is greater. Plotinus's claim to have divine power is upheld by a religious authority of some stature-an Egyptian priest. Although the practice sounds magical to us, it is clear that Porphyry is interested in it precisely because a priest of Isis is a religious defender of Plotinus's great power. Thus, after Porphyry has proven that Plotinus is a "divine man" with a god as tutelary spirit, he can digress to tell us of several great feats that were performed by him. As with other divine men, we are to interpret the great feats as "miracles," not as magical manipulations, precisely because a religious claim is being made about the performer. But, of course, if we were to translate this distinction into our time and into the world of the scholar of religion, the question might be moot, except perhaps to suggest that someone is using the words to pull rank. One of the most interesting recent suggestions in the study of magic has come from Fritz Graf (1997). In his chapter, "How to Become a Magician: The Rites of Initiation," Graf shows how often magic and the mysteries were held to be similar, not different or in opposition, as the convert Apuleius had maintained. It may well be that conversion cults of late antiquity themselves tended to be anti-witchcraft cults, as they often are in Africa (Douglas 1970b; Luck 1985). Although Graf does not mention them, I am talking not just about Isiac and Mithraic mysteries here but about Judaism and Christianity as well, because they tended to view all the opposing religions as witchcraft, in league with demons and not with God. Throughout the late empire we repeatedly find religiOUS functionaries claiming that their dispensation protects against demons and witchcraft. Graf goes on to show that the process of initiation was quite similar to the process by which priesthoods were filled; indeed, the notion of becoming an Egyptian priest was tantamount to becoming a sorcerer. He then makes the very interesting suggestion that the process of heavenly journey and the prayer to ask a god to take up residence within oneself was the same as gaining a parhedros.
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Thus, whenever the notion of having a god living within one is discussed, we have a magical/religious notion of transformation into a divine being. This is an important suggestion, if it could be demonstrated. We have seen how the practitioner in the Paris Magical Papyrus is trying to get the god to take up residence within him. If this were the same as gaining a parhedros we would be able to find an important connection between earlier magical practice and theurgic practice. Unfortunately, the texts do not support this contention. Neither the Paris Magical Papyrus nor the seance in Plotinus uses the word
parhedros to describe the practice. Porphyry's language makes it clear that he takes his demon to be from the ranks of the god, a guiding spirit (airt:OqJiav ,QV
oailJ.ova 8EOV), and this is clearly of a piece with the "tutelary spirit"
about which Plotinus wrote. But the point of Porphyry's argument is to show that this is no mere magical procedure but a divinity at work, as is also the case in other places where parhedros is used to describe a divinity or daemon who takes up residence inside a person (Ciraolo 1995). A better suggestion would be to see this as an imitation of the phenomenon of spiritual guides, so well described by Richard Valantasis (1991: 114-34). On the other hand, Grafs observation that magic and religion were basically fused together in late antiquity (I would add, especially where no accusations force a distinction) is a good one, one that describes the kind of religious world in which the ancients lived. And it explains as well how Dieterich could have confused a magical papyrus with a Mithras Liturgy. It was a world in which it was plausible to learn the techniques for bringing down the moon or summoning the angels or visiting the divinity in the heavens. Power was acknowledged and given place. Furthermore, even the philosophers and intellectuals of the late empire were impressed with magic or religion, providing that they could be individual entrepreneurs and not subservient to some greater priesthood. Thus, the intellectuals of the late empire seemed drawn to gnostic, hermetic, Chaldean and mystical notions-philosophies that also had practical, magical benefits. There was a built-in technology to their philosophical thinking, which could be learned and practised. I am suggesting that the Hekhaloth mysticism, the Paris Magical Papyrus, the hermetic literature, the Chaldean oracles, and even the discussions of Iamblichus and Plotinus, at least as understood by Porphyry, were part of a general
522
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individualization of religious/magical power. There were considerable benefits in being perceived as a philosopher and an individual ritual entrepreneur. So by the end of the Hellenistic period the earlier dis unified and local magic traditions had been unified by intellectuals into an overriding transnational philosophy of theurgy, which was, among other things, a salvation cult that rivalled Christianity among some classes. Indeed, among the intelligentsia it was more popular. Had Julian not been felled by a spear on June 26, 363, it may have remained the elite's religion in the West. In the guise of Gnosticism
and many other esoteric doctrines it has continually reemerged in Western culture, including Jewish mysticism.
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References Assmann, Jan 1997
"Magic and Theology in Ancient Egypt." In Schafer and Kippenberg, Envisioning Magic, 1-18.
Benedict, Ruth "Magic." In Erwin R. A. Seligman and Alvin Johnson (eds.), 1935 Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, 10.39-44. New York: Macmillan. Betz, Hans Dieter, ed. 1986 The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation, Including the Demotic Spells. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Bidez, Joseph and Franz Cumont 1938 Les mages hellenises: Zoroastre, Ostanes et Hystaspe d'apres la tradition grecque. Paris: Societe d'Edition "Les Belles Lettres." [English edition: Ancient Religion and Mythology. New York: Arno Press, 1975) Brehier, Emile 1965 [1931) The Hellenistic and Roman Age. Trans. Wade Baskin. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Brown, Peter 1970 "Sorcery, Demons and the Rise of Christianity from Late Antiquity into the Middle Ages." In Douglas, Witchcraft Confessions and
Accusations, 17 ·45. Ciraolo, Leda Jean "Supernatural Assistants in the Greek Magical Papyri." In Marvin W. 1995 Meyer and Paul Mirecki (eds.), Ancient Magic and Ritual Power, 27996. Leiden: Brill. Dieterich, Albrecht 1910 (1903) Eine Mithrasliturgie. Leipzig: Teubner. Dodds, E. R. 1968 The Greeks and the Irrational. Berkeley: University of California Press. Douglas, Mary 1970a [1966) Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo. New York: Praeger. "Introduction: Thirty Years After Witchcraft, Oracles and Magic." In 1970b Mary Douglas (ed.), Witchcraft Confessions and Accusations, xiiixxxviii. London: Tavistock. Evans-Pritchard, E. E. 1937 Witchcraft, Oracles, and Magic Among the Azande. Oxford: Clarendon. Fowden, Garth
1993
The Egyptian Hennes: A Historical Approach Princeton: Princeton University Press.
to
the Late Pagan Mind.
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Frankfurter, David
1998
Religion in Roman Egypt: Assimilation and Resistance. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Gager, John, ed.
1992
Curse Tablets and Binding Spells from the Ancient World. New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Graf, Fritz 1997
[1994) Magic in the Ancient World. Trans. Franklin Philip. Cambridge. MA: Harvard University Press. Griffiths, J. Gwyn 1975 Apuleius ofMadauros: The Isis- Book (Metamorphoses Book XI). Leiden: Brill. Holladay, Carl P. 1977 Theios Aner in Hellenistic Judaism: A Critique of the Use of This Category in New Testament Christology. Missoula: Scholars Press. Johnston, Sarah Iles 1997 "Rising to the Occasion: Theurgic Ascent in Its Cultural Milieu." In Schafer and Kippenberg, Envisioning Magic, 165-94. Kee, Howard Clark 1983 Miracle in the Early Christian World: A Study in Sociohistorical Method. New Haven: Yale University Press. Kluckhohn, Clyde 1944 Navaho Witchcraft. Cambridge, MA: The Peabody Museum. Leach, Edmund Ronald 1976 Culture and Communication: The Logic by which Symbols Are Connected. An Introduction to the Use of Structuralist Analysis in Social Anthropology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lesses, Rebecca
1998
Ritual Practices to Gain Power: Angels, Incantations, and Revelations in Early Jewish Mysticism. Harrisburg: Trinity Press International.
Lewis, Naphtali and Meyer Reinhold
1955
Roman Civilization Sourcebook, Vol. 2: The Empire. New York: Columbia University Press.
Lowe, J. E. 1929 Luck, Georg 1985
Magic in Greek and Latin Literature. Oxford: Blackwell. Arcana Mundi: Magic and the Occult in the Greco-Roman World: A Collection of Ancient Texts. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.
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1989
''Theurgy and Forms of Worship in Neoplatonism." In Jacob Neusner, Ernest S. Frerichs and Paul Virgil McCracken Flesher (eds.), Religion, Science and Magic: In Concert and in ConjIict, 185225. New York: Oxford University Press. MacMullen, Ramsay 1966 Enemies of the Roman Order: Treason, Unrest, Alienation in the Empire. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Mair, Lucy Witchcraft. New York: McGraw-HilL 1969 Malinowski, Bronislaw 1944 A Scientific Theory of Culture and Other Essays. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Martroye, F. "La repression de la magie et les cultes des gentils au IVe siecie." 1930
Revue historique du droit {ranqais et etranger 4: 669-701. Meyer, Marvin W., ed. and trans.
1976 The Mithras Liturgy. Missoula: Scholars Press. Meyer, Marvin W. and Richard Smith, eds. 1994
Ancient Christian Magic: Coptic Texts of Ritual Power. San Francisco:
Harper. Parrinder, Edward Geoffrey
1963
Witchcraft: European and African. New York: Barnes and Noble.
Preisendanz, Karl and A. Henrichs, eds.
1973-74
[1928-31J Papryi Graecae Magicae: Die griechischen Zauberpapyri. 2 yols. Stuttgart: Teubner.
Remus, Harold
1983
Pagan-Christian ConjIict Over Miracle in the Second Century. Cambridge, MA: Philadelphia Patristic Foundation. Schafer, Peter and Hans G. Kippenberg, eds. 1997 Envisioning Magic: A Princeton Seminar and Symposium. Leiden: Brill. Segal, Alan F. "Hellenistic Magic: Some Questions of Definition." In R. van den 1981 Broek and M. J. Vermaseren (eds.), Studies in Gnosticism and
Hellenistic Religions Presented fa Gilles Quispel on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday, 349-75. Leiden: Brill. [reprinted in Alan F. Segal, The Other }udaisms of Late Antiquity, 79-108. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987] Shaw, Gregory
1995
Theurgy and the Soul: The Neoplatonism oflamblichus. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press.
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Smith, Jonathan Z. 1975 "Good News Is No News: Aretalogy and Gospe\." In Jacob Neusner (ed.) , Christianity, Judaism and Other Graeco- Roman Cults: Studies for Morton Smith at Sixty, 1.21-38. Leiden: Brill. [reprinted in Jonathan Z. Smith, Map Is not Territory: Studies in the History of Religions, 190207. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978] 1977 "The Temple and the Magician." In Jacob Jervell and Wayne A. Meeks (eds.), God's Christ and His People: Studies in Honor of Nils Alstrup Dahl, 233-47. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget. Smith, Morton "Observations on Hekhaloth Rabbati." In Alexander Altman (ed.), 1963 Biblical and Other Studies, 142-60. Cambridge. MA: Harvard University Press. The Secret Gospel: The Discovery and Interpretation ofthe Secret Gospel 1973 of Mark. New York: Harper and Row. Jesus the Magician. New York: Harper and Row. 1978 Swartz, Michael 1995 "Magical Piety in Ancient and Medieval Judaism." In Meyer and Mirccki. Ancient Magic and Ritual Power, 167-200. Tavener, Eugene 1966 [1916] Studies in Magic from Latin Literature. New York: AMS Press. Theissen. Gerd Urchristliche Wundergeschichten: Ein Beitrag ZUf formgeschichtlichen 1974 Erforschung der synopcischen Evangelien. Giitersloh: Mohn. Tiede. David Lenz 1972 The Charismatic Figure as Miracle Worker. Missoula: Scholars Press. Valantasis. Richard 1991 Spiritual Guides of the Third Century: A Semiotic Study of the GuideDisciple Relationship in Christianity. Neoplatonism, Hermetism, and Gnosticism. Minneapolis: Fortress. Van def Loos, H. 1968 [1965] The Miracles ofJesus. Trans. T. S. Preston. Leiden: Brill. Wax, Rosalie and Murray Wax 1962 "The Magical World View." Journal for the ScientifIC Study of Religion 1: 179-88. "The Notion of Magic." Current Anthropology 4: 495-503. 1963
29
APULEIUS TO SYMMACHUS (AND STOPS IN BETWEEN): PIETAS, REALIA AND THE EMPIRE HAROLD REMUS
Two hundred years apart two men stand before Roman officials pleading a case-one in a provincial North African town, the other in the imperial court in Milan. Both are well-known orators and argue eloquently, one at length, the other more briefly. The first, Apuleius of Madaura, a private citizen charged with practising magic (and alienation of affections), is on good terms with Claudius Maximus, the official presiding at his trial; both Maximus and Apuleius, along with the rest of the court, operate with common assumptions about society and culture. The other, Quintus Aurelius Symmachus Eusebius, a senator and the Prefect of Rome, is pleading in effect for a way of life Apuleius takes for granted. Symmachus, Apuleius and Maximus share much regarding that way of life. Thanks to the growth in numbers of Christians, however, their organizational acumen and their now recognized, indeed favoured, position at court, the Roman official to whom Symmachus presents his case-the emperor himself-sits on, or on the other side of, the fence regarding the pietas that Apuleius and Maximus had in common. Both of these court or courtroom dramas have been much studied. What this essay focusses on is pietas as represented in each of the defences, and specifically on the role that realia-things-play in pietas. Peter Richardson has persistently reminded us not to overlook realia as we pore over our texts. This essay will suggest that changes in the realia of what was considered pietas express decisive shifts in society and culture, in power and in group consciousness, and thus mark and illuminate significant transitions in the Roman Empire from the second to the fourth centuries.
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1. Realia-"Things" "Religion," with its many holy objects and seemingly mundane concerns, has been (and is) frequently distinguished from "spirituality"-a term often undefined except tacitly as "personal, spontaneous and alive," and distinct from traditional, institutional expressions of the "spiritual" (Grimes 1999: 145 j cf. Marty 1983: 165). Or it is distinguished from a highly "spiritual" version of religion directed to serving and glorifying deity (see Remus 1982a: 142). Yet it is significant that we designate periods of human history by the objects people used-Paleolithic, Neolithic, Bronze Age, Iron Age, Industrial Revolution, Atomic Age (Csikszentmihalyi and Rochberg-Halton 1981: ix). Those objects include ones that humans made-or found and used-for survival, which in their design, however, often went beyond the strictly functional. Objects also serve to express individual or group consciousness, establishing identity over against other individuals or groups, or humans over against nature, and/or relating humans to nature or to something or someone that was more than nature. Adornments and cult objects come to mind here. Those same objects can signify, and exercise, power: a ring on a chieftain's finger, the bread and wine in the hands of a Roman Catholic priest, the image of Mercury that Apuleius's opponents say he uses in occult rites. l Objects also function in socialization, in the transmission of culture from one generation to the next. 2 The numerous realia that appear in Apuleius's
Apology had been handed down from previous generations, and he and his hearers had no doubts that they would be handed on to subsequent ones as well. The Altar of Victory for which Symmachus pleads was placed in the senate chamber four centuries earlier by Augustus. Symmachus and his fellows perceive that its absence from the chamber threatens the culture they inherited
"Things" often iigure significantly in literature, for example, in E. M. Forster's work (Gransden 1962: 29-30,55-59,63·64,67-68), and in such short stories as Saul Bellow's "A Silver Dish" (1979), Cynthia Ozick's "The Shawl" (1981) and Tim O'Brien's "The Things They Carried" (1987: 625: "[Flor all the ambiguities of Vietnam, all the mysteries and unknowns, there was at least the single abiding certainty, that they would never be at a loss for things to carry"). 2 See, for example, Martin Marty's wry look at the cultural icon many Americans (and others) likely revere most: "The Altar of Automobility" (1962).
ApULEIUS TO SYMMACHUS
529
and treasure: as tong as the altar was present, so too was deity, bestowing authority on the senate's deliberations and victory on Rome's legions. The objects that constitute the Roman meTa are ~imply objects, however, apart from the traditions-enshrined in Roman oral tradition and literature-that accompany them down through the generations. Conversely, the objects themselves embody those traditions, providing (as Hannah Arendt has said about "things") "stability and solidity" to "the unstable and mortal creature" that is the human being (Arendt 1958: 136). If the traditions connected with the objects come to be discredited, by the power of other traditions or by literal power or both, however, the objects cease to provide "a framework of experience" ordering "our otherwise shapeless lives" (Csikszentmihalyi and Rochberg-Halton 1981: 16). In the first scene below, such discrediting of much of traditional Roman pietas and its realia is offstage, taking place among Christians. In the second, that process has proceeded to the highest levels, articulated by Ambrose and then by his successors, in the name of other realia and their accompanying narratives.
2. Pietas and Realia: Second,Century North Africa The occasion of Apuleius's trial around 157 CE3 is his marriage to a wealthy widow some years his senior in a town where he is a stranger. Having returned to Africa after study in Athens followed by lengthy travels, Apuleius falls sick in Oca (Apol. 72), modern Tripoli. Pontianus, a friend from Apuleius's student days in Athens, attends his sickbed and eventually persuades him to marry his widowed mother, thus obtaining a stepfather who he believes will ensure that he and his younger brother will inherit their mother's considerable fortune (7174). Given Pudentilla's age and her wealth, and that she has refused marriage with her late husband's brother, her marriage to this young outsider raises eyebrows and arouses keen hostility among her late husband's family. They hale Apuleius into court on charges of winning the widow by magic, for the sake of her wealth. The proconsul of Africa himself, Claudius Maximus, presides over the trial in a crowded courtoom at Sabrata (Apol. 59), sixty miles west of Oea.
3 Dated according to the time of the proconsulship of Claudius Maximus, who presides at the trial (Valletre 1924: xxiii).
530
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to
his eloquent, spirited defence, Apuleius is acquitted and
subsequently quits Oea for Carthage (Flor. 16). The Ap%gy,4 recorded after the trial either from Apuleius's notes and/or from a stenographic transcription of his defence, is interesting as "un echantillon presque unique de l'eloquence judiciaire sous l'empire romain" (Vallette 1924: xxiv), and for the picture it offers of Apuleius's particular kind of rhetoric and of the man himself. But, as with Apuleius's other works, it also offers a rich panorama of day-to-day life in the second century-clothing, diet, marketplace, family tensions, social customs, legal manoeuvres, "magic" and piety. Elsewhere (Remus 1983: 70-71) I have offered an analysis ofthe social and cultural context of the trial: the outsider who through his marriage disrupts the social fabric and is then charged with sorcery.s For Apuleius's accusers the charges they bring against him are both an explanation of what has happened and a means of bringing him to trial. Although not necessarily as rustic as Apuleius's portrayal of them, they are indeed less educated, less quick of tongue and generally less clever than he--differences that Apuleius exploits relentlessly. Nonetheless, he and they, along with Maximus and Apuleius's supporters in the court, share a number of presuppositions that make his argument "go." From his rhetoric one can discern what is commonly accepted by those in the courtroom as pietas-thc complex of obligations and duties that was an essential element of Roman culture pervading "every sphere of life .... Romans were expected to be devoted and dutiful to their family, friends, fellow citizens, country, and gods" (Shelton 1998: 2; cf. further Wilken 1984: 48-67). Various of these traits appear, as their opposites, in Apuleius's characterization (likely a caricature) of his chief accuser, Aemilianus (Apol. 56). If one turns on their head the vices and impietas Apuleius attributes to Aemilianus, one has their opposites-virtues deemed essential to pietas and expressed in various objects. 6
4 I have used the Vallette edition (1924). 5 That analysis should now be amplified with insights from family systems theory (e.g., Sedgwick 1981) regarding disruptions such as that seen in Oea. 6 "Pious" might suggest itself as an English counterpart to pius, but it has connotations that pius and pietas do not. Pietas, as the quotation from Shelton in the text indicates, has to do with duty; thus Lewis and Short (1907), for pietas: "dutiful conduct towards the gods, one's parents, relatives, benefactors, country, etc.; sense of duty"; and for pius: acting
531
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Vices/Impietas
Virtues/Pietas
Aemilianus ridicules things divine (res divinas). Does not pray to the gods. Does not frequent temples. Does not raise his hand to his lips in an act of reverence when passing a shrine. Does not offer the first fruits of his crops, vines or flocks to the rural deities who nourish and clothe him. Has no shrine on his farm, no holy place, no sacred grove. Has no stone on which to offer oil to deity. Does not hang wreaths to the gods on trees. Regards initiations into mysteries as absurd.
The pius person reverences things divine. Prays to the gods. Goes to temples. Raises a hand to his or her lips when passing a shrine. Offers first fruits.
Has a shrine, a holy place. a sacred grove. Has such a stone and offers oil on it. Hangs such wreaths on trees. Is initiated into mysteries.
Stock characterizations of this sort were familiar from comedy and rhetoric and from Theophratus's Characters, where traits appear similar to some of those listed above. 7 Their very triteness underlies Apuleius's assumption that his hearers will consent to his characterization of Aemilianus as lacking in pier:as when seen against what they assume to be pietas. From other passages one can expand this mini-phenomenology of what constitutes pier:as for Apuleius and his audience and what kind of realia express it. Day to day, it is of course a polytheistic world in which denial of the existence of the gods is assumed to be irreligiosus (Apol. 27.1) and children arc brought up on stories about the gods, although Apuleius as a good Platonist
"according to duty," especially toward "the gods and religion in general, to parents, kindred, teachers, country; pious, devout, conscientious, ajfectio'lUlte, tender, kind, good, grateful, respectful, loyal, patriotic, etc." There seems to be no adequate English equivalent; therefore I employ pius. 7
"Microphilotimia" (9.10: a man with this trait dedicates a ring in an Asclepius sanctuary and polishes, garlands and anoints it daily); "Deisidaimonia" (16.6: coming on oiled stones at a crossroads the religiously scrupulous person pours oil on them and reverences them); "Duschereia" (19.8-9: a man curses when his mother goes to consult an oracle; when others are offering prayers and libation, this rype of man drops his cup and laughs).
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(Rep. 377a-378e) disowns the practice (Apol. 39.1). As a Platonist he is familiar with the idea of daemons as mediators between gods and humans 8 who make possible the marvels of magicians (magorum miracula) as well as divination (43.2) by means of incantations, music, scents, a lantern or a bowl of water, young boys' souls being especially fit vehicles for such prognostications (42.3-8, citing various learned authorities; 43.3-5). Augurs (harioli), too, predict the future by examining livers, and philosophers, as priests of all the gods, may do the same (41.3). Although humans' souls are immortal, indeed divine (43.3), their bodies render them vulnerable-to illness, often fatal and at an early age (96.5-6; 97.1), or to death at sea or from \vild beasts (72.5). It is only the gods who are immortal (39.1), although some mortals may be considered less mortal than others: Hercules, because of his virtues, was admitted into heaven (in cae/um; 22.9-10); and people honour the emperor with images, present in the courtroom, which (says Apuleius) should shame one into proper behaviour (85.1-3). The gods lack nothing (21.6).9 Humans nonetheless tender them fragrant oblations of various kinds (32.4) or other offerings (54.7) commensurate to their means (65.4-5; Apuleius quoting Plato, Laws 955e). Some might perhaps use a sacred branch to honour the gods (54.7). Others fashion images of them (61.6-7; 63.4), ideally meticulously wrought (63.7 -8), taking care to choose the appropriate material from which to do so (43.6; 61.6-7; 65)-Apuleius again cites Plato (65.7; Laws 955e-956a) and draws assent from the audience (65.8). Such an image people might carry with them, as .Apuleius does, praying to it on festival days as well as offering incense and wine, or perhaps a victim (63.3). Or one might inscribe a petition on the thigh of an image (54.7), or go to a deity's temple to offer silent prayer (54.7). In response to his accuser's charge that he has in his house a mysterious object that he venerates, Apuleius says it would be far worse to have nothing at all to worship (27.10). Those humans who have but little are most like the gods (21.6). Indeed, Romans give thanks for the poverty out of which Rome's empire rose and even today offer sacrifices to the gods using instruments from those early days: a
Plato, Symp. 202d-203a; Apuleius, De deo Socr. 4-6, cites this passage. On this tradition see the sources and studies cited in Remus (1983: 231 n.75). 9 On this familiartheme in Greco-Roman thought see Acts 17: 25 and Haenchen (1959: 460 n.1).
8
ApULEIUS TO SYMMACHUS
533
simple ladle and an earthen bowl (18.8). Roman tradition testifies to the worth Romans placed on poverty (18.9-12). Apuleius makes reference to various deitit:, and at one point pronounces on his accuser a lengthy curse, invoking Mercury-the intermediary between the upper and lower worlds-to unloose on Aemilianus the gods of both places and a host of spectres from the world of the dead (64.1-2). At the same time, citing [PseudolPlato (Ep. 2.312e), he claims allegiance to a deity, the basile us, totius rerum naturae causa et ratio et origo initialis, summus animi genitor, aetemus animantum sospitator, assidus mundi sui opifex, sed enim sine opera opifex, sine cura sospitator, sine propagatione genitor, neque loco neque tempore neque uice u[[a comprehensus eoque paucis cogitabilis, nemini effabilis. (64.7) 10 Maximus is assumed by Apuleius to have knowledge of this king, as would likely some others in the courtroom. Even more, it seems, show their assent or pleasure when he brings up rhe subject of mysteries. From a speech given on his first arriving in Oca they had learned of his initiation into numerous mysteries l1 and now, at his invitation, recite the opening words, Maximus then giving permission for the passage to be read aloud (55.10-11). They know that at initiation one receives certain signa et monumenta that one carefully preserves safe from profane hands (55.8)-in Apuleius's case in a linen cloth, that purest of coverings for divine things (56.1-2). Only to those who have gone through the same ceremonies will he reveal what he keeps in the linen cloth (56.9). A prominent element in Apuleius's defence is his claim that he has been a model husband and stepfather (66-94; 98.6; 104), both essential elements in
pietas. As for sons, they are to show filial devotion and respect (84-86). Expected of women are chastity in marriage (75.1-2; 98.1), virginity before marriage (76; 92.6-7), modesty (76.5)-in short, nothing that would shame their households. His wife, Pudentilla, is depicted by Apuleius as a model of female pietas. Unswervingly loyal to her husband, she is also mulier sapiens et
10 Cf. Apuleius, Mel. 11.5, where an Isis aretalogy concludes that despite her many names she is nonetheless one, Queen Isis; cf. also Celsus in Origen, Cancra Cek 1.24; 5.41. 11 The Lucius of the Metamorphoses undergoes three initiations (11.29); at this point in the narrative this young Greek has unexpectedly become Madaurensis (11.27); on the literary and archaeological evidence for Madaura as Apuleius's place of origin see Vallette (1924:
vi-vii).
534
TEXT AND ARTIFACf
egregie pia (68.5), rearing her two sons memorabili pietate sedulo (68.2), seeing to a financially secure future for them (91.8), and even entering into an undesirable marriage contract for their sake (68.5). As to her wealth, she is a responsible manager of her finances (87.7). Apuleius praises her as a woman of integrity (87.8), possessed of various good qualities (66.2; 73.7), a feminam sanctissimam et pudicissimam (78.1)-a reputation that continues beyond her death (Apollinaris Sidonius, Ep. 2.10.5). Although a key figure in the trial, only in what the plaintiffs and defendant say about her is she present-presumably another mark of her pietas, that is, she does not shame her husband by displaying herself in public. 12 Even more prominent in Apuleius's defence is his repudiation of the charge of practising "magic." Apulei pro se de magia liber is "pour l'histoire de la magie un document non meprisable" (Vallette 1924: xxiv). As the chief charge against Apuleius, it needs careful attention for what it reveals of pietas but also because the term "magic" is so ambiguous. Various "essential" characteristics are often posited as demarcating it from "miracle" and "religion." Taken in context, however, it becomes clear that the term "magic" serves, and has served, chiefly as a social classifier, setting groups and individuals off from one another according to whether they value or (more commonly) disparage what it signifies, and distinguish it from "miracle" and/or "religion.,,1J As unsanctioned behaviour even to the point of illegality,14 it has been imputed to Apuleius and thus brought him into court. Accordingly, he seeks to blunt the charges by leading them ad absurdam and arguing ad hominem (13.16), or by explaining that the fishes adduced as evidence against him are harmless and
12 Cf. Apuleius's criticisms of another woman for doing so (76.2,5). 13 See, for example, Nock (1972a; 1972b); Gager (1992: 24·25); Graf (1991); Remus (1982a; 1982b;1999a; citing numerous other studies). Augustine contrasts Apuleius, "that magician [magus ille]" (Ep. 138.19), with the "holy prophets" and their miracula and especially with Christ whose coming was predicted by those same prophets (138.20). 14 Unsanctioned and at times illegal: Phillips (1991). Examples of illegality: Remus (1982a: 153 nn.l47, 152; 1983: 69· 70)i Nock (l972b: 316), noting also that in early Rome "the presiding magistrate must have had considerable discretionary power in determining what was punishable as magic, and that under the Empire the suspicion of political intrigue intensified the official attitude against magiCians." Nock's surmise that "the gravamen of the charge against Apulcius lay in the fact that the disposition ofPudencilla's property was affected" (1972b: 316 n.47) is borne out by Apol. 67.4 (his accusers charge thal he forced Puut:ntilla to grant him a large dowry); on the legal basis of the charges against Apuleills see also Abt (1908: 82·8S).
ApULEIUS TO SYMMACHUS
535
used in scientific research (36-41); that his association with an epileptic woman was to provide medical care (48-51); and that the image of Mercury he had made for himself is a respectable object of worship (61-65). These explanations may not have been quite convincing 15 since the objects cited-mirror, fish, feathers, images-are objects that appear in so-called "magical" texts, sudden seizures might be seen as the effects of "magic," and Hermes [Mercury J- Thoth is associated with "magic.,,16 Perhaps sensing this. Apuleius presents another common line of defence regarding "magic"; it is harmless and respectable. Magus according to many authors is simply the Persian word for nostra sacerdos (25.9),17 and the "divine" Plato notes that Persian boys at age fourteen are taught the mageia of Zoroaster which is (simply) theon therapeia (25.10, citing Plato Alcib. 1.122a; 6€wv
6€pa1t€ia). The consternation produced among his accusers when he names several magicians (90.5) Apuleius counters by saying he learned their names from well-known authors in bybliothecis publids (91.2), that is, they are common knowledge. By citing various authors or practices, as well as the charges brought against him,18 Apuleius implies that knowledge of "magic" is widespread, as is awareness of various objects used in its practice, including fillets, sprigs, incense, laurel, clay, wax (30.7, referring to Virgil [Edog.8.64-65, 80]), venomous herbs, and the (love) talisman torn from the forehead of a newborn colt (30.8, citing Virgil, Aen. 4.513-16). Apuleius distances himself from magica maleficia (9.2), i.e., "that magic" (magia ista) forbidden in the Twelve Tables and other laws. Being secret as well as loathsome and horrifying (occulta ... tetra et horribilis) , this maleficent art is therefore practised at night away from public gaze (47.3-4). Anything can be misused, says Apuleius in defending his possession of certain fishes, but we do not therefore deem everything suspect (32.3-4). In view of all that he has said
15 Regarding one object, feathers, he offers no explanation but simply asserts that his accuser is lying (58). 16 On the use of these various objects in "magic": Abt (1908); Preisendanz (1941). Greek index. Apuleius himself cites various authorities on the use of magica percontatio, carmina, water, and an image of Mercury to induce boys to divine (42.5-8). 17 Cf. Nock (1972b: 308-13). 18 A variety of terms (magus, magia, veneficii, pharmaka, carmina, maleficii) appear in the sources Apuleius cites and in the charges against him in 30; 31; 38.7-8; 40.4; 41.5; 42; 61.1-2; 63.6; 67.3; 69.4; 70.3; 78.2, 5; 81.1; 83.1,2,6; 84.3. 4; 90.1; 91.4; 96.2; 102.1,7.
536
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
about magia, his defence of it as well as his extensive knowledge of it (also in the Metamorphoses), one could reasonably infer that he might consider magia of certain kinds to be a species of pietas--<Jcculta pietas, or containing (as Nock says) "an element of ignota pietas," a "mystical piety" of petition and thanksgiving leading to "a new spiritual condition" and "a god-like nature.,,19 In short, along with the Persians mentioned above, one can construe magia as therapeia theon. Maximus responds positively to Apuleius's defence, partly, one may surmise, because a man of some standing (24.9) and wealth (23.1) and of distinguished parentage (24.9) and of his cultural level addresses him. Apuleius can therefore venture boldly (almost brazenly) to curry Maximus's favour, complimenting him on his character (19.2; 25.3; 63.6; 85.2; 103.5), his patience and humanity (35.7), his fairness and sense of justice (102.5), and in general his judicial acuteness (48.3-8; 61.5) and critical judgment in assessing the charges (84.6). He attributes to Maximus profound erudition (91.3), including knowledge of Greek (98.8-9) and of numerous Greek authors (36.5; 38.1; 51.1; 64.4). From the responses in the courtroom it is evident that some in the audience aho share in some of the learning Apu leius parades before them. One would expect therefore that they and Maximus would appreciate a telling reference Apuleius makes to a certain impious character in the great epic of Rome, Virgil's Aeneid, and by implication to its hero. It comes at the climax of his attack on Aemilianus's pietas when Apuleius calls attention to two nicknames (agnomenta) that he says Aemilianus bears: Charon because of his ugly spirit and visage (56.7; cf. 23.7) and Mezentius, the cognomen Aemilianus is said to favour because he despises the gods (ob deorum con temp tum, 56.7). In the Aeneid, Mezentius is a contemptor divum (7.648; 8.7), allied with Turnus against Aeneas, the exemplar of Roman pietas: fleeing from burning Troy, Aeneas takes with him the city's sacra ("holy things"? "holy rites"?) and household and state gods (2.293-97; 3.12), bears his aged father on his
19 Nock (1972a: 190-92; and citing Lucan, Phars. 6.495-96: ignota tantum pietate merentuT IAn tacitis valuere minis?); for an example of "magic" as worship in the "magical" papyri, see POM 4.2967-3006 (in Preisendanz 1928: 168; trans. Betz 1992: 95), in which the worshipper pronounces (interestingly in view of Apuleius's image of Mercury), tyw EtjJ.l Epi-L lic;, and wraps the plane involved in a linen cloth; further examples in Graf (1991).
ArULEIUS TO SYMMACHUS
537
shoulders (2.707- 708) while leading his son by the hand (2.723-24), risks his life to look for his wife who has disappeared in the confusion (2.735-94), and throughout obeys the divine command to ignore personal wants and wishes so that he may found Rome. Hence the epithet-pius-that Virgil so frequently applies to him, and that Apuleius, by implication, attributes to himself.
3. Christians and Pietas Pius would for the most part not apply in the traditional sense outlined above to a certain population that is strictly off-stage in this whole courtroom drama. Although at the time of the trial Christians likely numbered only some 40,000, around 0.07 percent of a population of an estimated 60 million (Stark 1996: 7; Hopkins 1998: 193), they were a "noisy" presence (MacMullen 1984: 13)-in hindsight a small cloud on the Greco-Roman horizon presaging a significant change in the social and cultural climate. While one must be cautious about setting Christians off too sharply from the day-to-day society and culture of their time (Remus 1987; 1999b), nonetheless in crucial ways they were "other" both to themselves and to others. For various outsiders, Christians are in effect Apuleius's Mezentius, embodying the impious behaviour he ascribes to Aemilianus, not observing, and even disparaging, what is generally assumed in the Oean courtroom to be pietas and the realia embodying it. Thu~ accorJing to P1iny'~ well-known letter to Trajan ca. 112 eE, the presence of Christians in the towns and villages of Pontu/o meant that sales of the flesh of sacrificial victims had plummeted, temples were virtually deserted and traditional rites were not being observed (Pliny, Ep. 10.96.10). Some of the Christians refused to pray to the gods and offer wine and incense to Caesar's image (10.96.5). Their nocturnal gatherings, of both genders, were suspects as was their claim that at other gatherings they ate ordinary food (10.96.7). Their pertinacia and obstinatio were sufficient in themselves
to
condemn them (10.96.3). In short, it was a group for which Pliny, like other Romans, had choice epithets ready to hand (superstitionem pravam et
immodicam, 10.96.8; cf. similarly Tacitus, Ann. 15.44; Suetonius, Nero 16.2). Appearing before another Roman official in 156 CE, this time to the south in Smyrna, Bishop Polycarp is asked by him to confess Kupto~ Kaloap and to 20 On Pontus, not Bithynia, as the locale see Sherwin-White (1966: 694).
538
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
offer incense (Mart. Polyc. 8:2), to swear by the fortune of Caesar ('tTjv
Ka{(J(Xpoe; -rUXTJv) and to curse -roue; ti8eoue;, i.e., the Christians (9:2), while the spectators (according to the account) cry out that Polycarp is "the destroyer of our gods who teaches many not to sacrifice or worship" (12:2). Around the same time a resident of Smyrna, Aelius Aristides, attacks Jews and/or Christians and/or philosophers, or some confusion or combination of these (see Remus 1983: 101-102 and nn.21-23), fortraits that were commonly attributed to these groups and were seen as posing a threat to Greek society and tradition: shirking of civic rites and duties (To Plato, Dindorf ed., 404.3-6), undermining of institutions such as the household, aloofness, secretiveness, wilfulness, shamelessness, disrespectful attitudes and speech and, in general, neglect of the common weal.
21
Celsus, the best informed and most voluble of second-century "pagan" observers of Christians, raises similar but more extensive objections grounded in his basic complaint that Christians reject the ancient VOf.toe; and Aoyoe; that characterize the ancient Mediterranean world. Shirking military service (Origen, Contra Cels. 8.73) and the exercise of public office that sustains VOllot and EUae~€ta (8.75), they also refuse homage to the emperor (8.63,67). Aloof (8.2) and secretive (1.1,3,7), their aniconism is symptomatic of secret societies (8.17) and accords with their rejection of, indeed contempt for, traditional worship evident in their intolerance of temples, altars and images (7.62» their ridicule of cult and cult narratives (3.43» of deities (3.19) and of images (1.5a; 8.38), their designation of the latter as EiowAa (7.36; 8.24), and their euhemerizing (3.22) and demonizing (7.62) of traditional deities. Celsus has little usc for the women prominent in the Christian stories (1.28; 2.55) or for what he sees as gullible women taken in by fatuous Christians (3.55). For many other outsiders, the non-conformist behaviour of Christian women was an offence to pietas and brought shame on their households (MacDonald 1996). Similarly, the deliberate devaluing of the family by various Christians was seen as subversive of pietas (Coyle 1981). Alexander of Abonoteichos (in Lucian of Samos at a's telling) reflects common opinion of Christians as eo ipso subversive of received pietas when he ritually excludes Christians and Epicureans from his nocturnal mysteries (Alex. 38)
21 For the references in Aristides and discussion see Remus (1983: 10 1 and notes thereto).
ApULEIUS TO SYMMACHUS
539
and, grouping Christians with &8Eot, orders them driven off with stones (25)-for (one might observe with Apuleius supra) having no "thing" in one's worship is impious. Celsus, unsurprisingly, fails to mention that some of the Christians' criticisms of traditional EUaePEl(~/pietas had been voiced by philosophers too (see Remus 1983: 266 nn.34, 35). Philosophers, however, commonly did not reject those traditions and their realia 22 in favour of other forms of pietaJ and realia as Christians do in the extant texts. Wine, bread, water, oil, the clothes and bones of martyrs (Helgeland 1983: 340-41), even the dust on which the bones rested (Ac. Thorn. 170), are what figure in those texts. Great importance is also placed on another kind of"object": books and church libraries (Gamble
1995). By the end of the second century "a clearly Christian culture" marked by distinctive "funerary art, inscriptions, letters, symbols, and perhaps buildings" has emerged (Snyder 1985: 2; see also Hurtado, Chapter 16 above). The next two centuries are a story of accommodation and assimilation between the various forms of Christianity and the regnant culture. Along the way those persisting in adhering to traditional pietas as well as the pietas itself come to be marked off by Christians as "other" through the generalizing and pejorative tag
pagani. 13 When the emperors finally give up on persecutions, and tolerate and then favour Christianity, there is still much toing and froing about which realia will be tolerated or favoured and which prohibited.24 That is the issue in the next court drama.
4. Symmachus, the Emperor and the Altar of Victory Like Claudius Maximus, Symmachus too had served as proconsul for North Africa, whence he followed in the footsteps of his father and grandfather and succeeded to the office of praefectus urbi, i.e., Rome but in many aspects extending much beyond it (Barrow 1973: 1-4,9-10). His distinction as an
ZZ For Cicero's support of the state religion for its social value sec the passages cited in Pease (1973: 393,465); similarly, Epicurus, Lucretius, Polybius, cited in Remus (1983: 259n.18). 23 On the term see Latte (1960: 370· 71); Gcffckcn (1978: 209 n.20); MacMullen (1981: xii); Markus (1990: 28·29). 24 See the various histories of early and late antique Christianity and especially Geffcken (1978 [1920]); more recently Barnes (1990).
540
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
orator 25 exceeded that of Apuleius, and his eloquence is still noted by Augustine (Ep.138.19). Symmachus stood above Apuleius also in wealth and, as a senator, in rank as well (Barrow 1973: 1,9, 14). He shared the kind of pieras Apuleius assumes at a time when it was no longer assumed-when it had become "pagan" and when Christians had increased from a minuscule percentage of the population in Apuleius's day to well over half (Stark 1996: 7; Hopkins 1998: 193). In the senate, however, a substantial number 26 were still "pagan" and were alarmed by Emperor Gratian's removal in 382 of the Altar of Victory from the Curia Iulia, the chamber where the senate met and where Augustus had placed it after the battle of Actium. Constantius in 357 had done the same (Symmachus, Relat. 3.4-7), only to have Julian (it seems) restore it.27 Unlike Constantius, however, Gratian went decisively further, not only removing the altar but also declining the office ofPontifex Maximus (Zosimus, Hist. 4.36.5) and cutting off financial support to temples and priests, thus separating the state from the rites through which the state had practised pietas. 28 For these traditionalist senators, the Altar of Victory embodied that pietas. The altar epitomized the traditional pietas also for the senators' Christian opponents, notably Ambrose, whose intervention prevented his relative Symmachus from obtaining an audience with Gratian to protest the removal (Relat. 3.1; Ambrose, Ep. 17 29 ). But in 384, after Symmachus was appointed praefectus urbi and his friend Praetextatus was made praefectus praetorio ofItaly, in which role he had won concessions from Emperor Valentinian II (Relat. 21; 25 Recognized, for example, by Prudentius in his Contra Syml1UlChum 1.632-34: 2.19. 26 Ambrose contends that a majority of the senate is Christian (Ep. 17.9, rnajorc ... curia chris1iarwrum Tlurnero; 18.31, curia. . quo plures coTlveniunt christiani) , whereas Symmachus claims to act on behalf of the senate (Relat . .3.1-2) and to represent public opinion (3.20: iudicium publicum). Barnes (1990: 164) thinks both may be right, Ambrose referring to "the whole senatorial class" and Symmachus to "the majority at a particular meeting." 27 Restoration of the altar by Julian is the common view, inferred from (1) Symmachus's assertion (Relat. 3.4) that Constantius's removal in 357 did not last long Oulian coming to power in 361) and (2) Sozomen's report (Hist. Eeel. 5.3.1-2) that Julian ordered traditional temples and altars restored. That no extant source, including Julian, mentions "the restoration of so important a symbol of the old religion" suggests to Croke and Harries (1982: 29 n.9) that "the altar was, in fact, quietly restored after Constantius' departure from the city in 357." 28 On the Zosimus passage, the date ofGratian's refusal of the title ofPontifex Maximus and Constantius's actions in 357 see Cameron (1968). 29 For the Relationes I use Barrow's edition (1973); for Ambrose, Migne Patrologla Latina 16.
ApULEIUS TO SYMMACHUS
541
Bloch 1945: 214), it seemed that the imperial ear might be open to hearing an appeal. It was Symmachus who sent to the emperor in Milan what became the famous Third Reiatio. JO What Symmachus says about the Altar of Victory and Victory herself presupposes the long history of Victory in Rome and what especially the Victoria Augusta came to signifY: not "a single victory or simply victory, but the victorious Roman empire and all that it was able to offer within its borders, security, clemency, peace, and happiness.,,31 As Athens' laws once addressed Socrates at a critical moment (Plato, Crit. 50a-53d), so Rome in Symmachus's speech addresses Valentini an, pleading with him to allow her to continue the ancient caerimoniae, the pius ritus, the sacra that repelled Hannibal and the Gauls (Relat. 3.9). Earlier emperors respected the caerimonias patrum, admonishes Symmachus-do we no longer need an Altar of Victory to repel the barbarians (3.3)? Valentinian, in uncharacteristically Roman fashion, gambles with the future if he thinks he does not need what Victory bestows (3.3). Nor is it Roman to annul laws by ignoring bequests, the case in point being those made to the vestal virgins (3.13-14). As such acts visited on Rome all the troubles it experienced in the past (3.15), so now the recent, unprecedented famine has the same cause (3.15-17). Of course, all things are full of God (omnia quidem deo plena sum), but it is their embodiment in slIch an object as the altar that renders divinity present (praesentia numinis) (3.5). Even as Apuleius had seen the presence of the emperor's images in the courtroom as motivatingpietas (supra), so Symmachus sees the altar as discouraging perjury and imparting to the senate's actions the authority of decisions taken as though under oath (3.5). Indeed, ilia ara concordiam tenet omnium (3.5). Even though Constantius erred in removing the altar (3.6), yet he also let many of the traditional customs stand (3.6). Moreover, note how Constantills, on visiting Rome for the first time, followed a joyous senate through the streets, viewed the sanctuaries with untroubled gaze (placido are), and after inquiring about the origins of the temples and
30 Although the Relatio is addressed to Theodosius, emperor in the East and then later also in the West, Ambrose (Ep. 17. I 2) addresses Valentinian as though he were the recipient; cf. Barrow (1973: 35 n.1). 31 Weinstock (1957: 221; see the whole article for the history of Victory in Rome); on the Altar of Victory controversy see the collection of sources in Croke and Harries (1982: chap.2).
542
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
admiring their founders read the names of the gods inscribed on the pediments: although he himself followed other religious traditions, he nonetheless preserved these others for the empire (3.6) .32 What we ask, says Symmachus, is that these indigenous gods, the gods of our fathers, be preserved (3.9). Still, whatever one worships, they are all one and the same, for the same stars, sky and earth are common to us all, and by whatever means we seek truth it is not by one path alone that so great a secret is attained (3.9). This can be interpreted as a recognition and justification of the participation in non-Roman cults by Roman aristocrats, attested in inscriptions. 33 It can also be seen as a jab at Christian exclusivity (e.g., Ambrose, Ep. 17.1, 2, 14; cf. later Prudentius's two books Contra Symmachus and Augustine's impatient reply to Maximus, letters 16 and 17). It can also be read, however, as "a kind of recognition of Christianity" (Bloch 1945: 215) by someone aware of the shift in power and climate of opinion that had taken place by the end of the fourth century. Symmachus knew that Ambrose acting on behalf of other churchmen had been able to prevent him from appearing before Gratian on behalf of the altar (supra). He might have suspected that Ambrose would enter the fray also in the present circumstance, which in fact he did, sending two forceful letters (17, 18) to Valentinian, in one of which he threatens Valentinian with excommunication (17.13-14). Although Symmachus, as a senator and as praefectus urbi, is a powerful public figure, appointed by the emperor himself, he does not venture to presume on the emperor's favour or to curry it as Apuleius, a mere private citizen, does with Claudius Maximus. Symmachus's vulnerability in relation to his Christian opponents is seen acutely in Relatio 21 in which he defends himself against rumour that he had mistreated Christians in carrying out a decree won by Praetextatus from Valentinian to investigate the plundering of
32 On Constantius's visit sec the detailed aCCOunt in Ammianus Marcellinus (16.10.1-17). Symmachus nor surprisingly passes over Constantius's legislation against sacritlces, temples and divination (Cod, Thcod, 16,10,2-6; 9.16.4 in the years 341-57; in Croke and Harries 1982: 19-20). 33 Latte (1960: 369 and 0.3); see the table of inscriptional evidence for participation of Roman aristocrats, including Symmachus's father and father-in-law, in various alien worships in the fourth century in Bloch 1945, following p. 244, and the follow-up to Bloch by Matthews (1973). Ambrose, Ep, 18.30, calls attention to the alien worships imported into Rome (infra).
543
ApULEJUS TO SYMMACHUS
temples. Foreseeing the suspicions that such an investigation by him would arouse, he says he did not even begin the inquiry (21.5). That this was a shrewd assessment of the situation is borne out by subsequent events. His appeal on behalf of the altar is denied (Ambrose, Ep. 18.1), Later, after the death of Praetextatus, his dear friend and stalwart companion in the struggle, he resigns as prefect (Relat. 10) and is succeeded by a Christian. Then, amid the turbulent political events of the time, Symmachus chooses to support an ultimately unsuccessful pretender to the throne, and to escape the consequences has to take refuge in a church (Bloch 1945: 220). The last that is heard of him is in 402 CE when he appealing, yet again, and unsuccessfully, for the restoration of the altar (Barrow 1973: 13).
5. Afterword Symmachus's Third Relatio had a much longer life than its author. Ambrose appended it to the lengthy letter he wrote Valentinian in reply to it. 34 The letter and subsequent ripostes demonstrate how the climate of opinion had shifted from the second to the fourth century. What was assumed as pietas in the second century is now marginalized as gentilis (Ambrose, Ep.17.9, gentilisj lS.1, gentihum), i.e., "pagan,"}; and its adherents are relegated by Ambrose
to
minority status
(sectamgentilium, Ep. 18.2). TIle term by which Pliny characterized Christianitysuperstitio---Ambrose now applies (t'p. 17.16) to that Pietas, and its realia are ridiculed by this fourth-century Mezentius, this contemptor divum. Pagans talk of God, says Ambrose, but worship an image (simulacrum, Ep. 18.2). Those images that fill the baths, the porticoes and streets (1S.31) are works of human hands (1S.B). The pagans' God is a piece of wood (1B.9) .36 Even their own philosophers ridiculed worship of God in stones (18.8). As to military victory, those sacra are said to have repelled enemies, and to have power-yet Hannibal reviled them and still reached the walls of the city (1S.4). Africanus triumphed over Hannibal on the battlefield and not among the altars of the Capitol (lB.7). It is soldiers, not entrails, that win battles (lS.7). The
34 Bloch (1945: 219); the Relatio is printed in MPL 16: 828-32 after Symmachus's Ep. 17. 35 Latte 1967: 371: Gentiles, i.e., the apostle Paul's e8vot, has the sense of pagani and at the beginning of the fifth century still occurs more frequently than that term. 36 Cf. the ridicule of wooden images in Jewish (Isa 40: 19- 20; 44: 13-20; Wis 14: 1-14) and Roman literature (Horace, Sat. 1.8.1).
544
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
victory pagans believe to be a deity is a gift, not a powerj it is something won by the legions, not by the power of ceremonies (religionum potentia, 18.30). The vestal virgins' chaplets and purple insignia have nothing to do with virginity (18.12). And ifit is the ancient ceremonies that so pleased Romans (and figure so prominently in Symmachus's appeals), why did Romans import a host of alien deities and their ceremonies (18.30) ?37 Almost twenty years after the Third Relatio38 Prudentius's Contra
Symmachum rehearses Roman history once again opposed
to
to
come to conclusions
those of Symmachus. The most telling riposte comes, however, a
few years later in Augustine's City of God, written, like the Relatio, in response to
disaster, but one of much greater magnitude than the famine cited by
Symmachus: the Goths' sack of Rome in 410 CEo With immense erudition, this one-time protege of Symmachus, who had been appointed by him professor of rhetoric of Milan in 384 but then under the influence of Ambrose charted a different course (Conf. 5.13-14; Brown1967: 69-71 and chap. 8; Stock 1996: 53-64), relentlessly turns the pages of Roman history to discredit Roman cult and all its realia as a gross deception with daemons masquerading as gods. At length he argues with Apuleius regarding the nature of daemons (Civ. D. 8-9), with Porphyry regarding theurgy (Civ. D. 10), and magic and magicians (Civ. D. 21). It is not these daemon-deities of Roman pieta.s and all their images and other accoutrements that account for the greatness of Rome but, rather, virtus. 39 The one who frees himself from this bondage fully and finally is Jesus Christ, the unique mediator who has something like God (aliquid simile deo) that might distance him from humans, but because he also has something like humans (aliquid simile hominibus) is thus accessible to them (Conf. 10.42.67). Meanwhile, in a dialogue roughly contemporary with the City of God, the
Aeneid that Augustine subjects to merciless interrogation-that epic of the pius hero of Roman antiquity-is, for the Symmachus of Mac rob ius's Saturnalia and the other traditionalists in the dialogue, in effect the Bible, with Virgil as the Pontifex Maximus of Roman religion (1.24). The dialogue has been interpreted
37 Ambrose might have noted Victory's origin as the Greek NiKT). 38 According to commondatingj Barnes (1990: 166 and n.41), while noting Harries's "plausible suggestion" (LaWlIlUS 43 [1984]: 69-84) of394-95 for the composition of Book 1 and 402-403 for Book 2, does not think that Book 1 was necessarily "published or circulated separately." 39 Esp. Civ. D. 5.12-13, with love of honour, praise and glory (causa hOl1OrlS laudis et gloriae, 5.13.1) moving Romans to virtue; see further Brown (1967: 309-10).
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by Peter Brown (1967: 301) as representing "a whole culture running hard to stand still," seeking to preserve "a whole way of life in the present, by transfusing it with the inviolable safety of an adored past.,,40 For the characters in the Saturnalia there is an indissoluble tie between cult and culture, that "adored past," even as there was for Porphyry, Julian, and later for Justinian. Porphyry had trouble imagining how Origen, so versed in Greco-Roman culture, could be a Christian,41 while Julian forbade Christians to
teach classical literature because they did not share its presuppositions (Ep.
36) and Justinian closed the philosophical schools in Athens because he saw them as inimical to the Christian culture that he believed must form the basis of a Christian stateY For Augustine, however, once the "religion" in the inherited literature is discredited it is neither a threat to Christians nor evocatory of the numinous for pagans; the literature is thus secularized, opening it to Christians and enabling pagans to embrace Christianity without jettisoning their prized literature (cf. Brown 1967: 265-66). As for the realia of the inherited pietas, Augustine has to warn that amulets worn to ward off daemons are not permitted for Christians (De doctr. christ. 2.20.30). Bearing out his concern are the "magical" papyri in which Christian amulets and recipes are found in significant numbers (Meyer and Smith 1994). Although "the cult of the saints" was a powerful new kind of Pietas, for both upper and lower strata of society (Brown 1981; Markus 1990: chap. 10). and although the many statues ofYictory throughout the Empire might end up toppled into the sand, desolate (van der Heyden and Scullard 1959: 174, pI. 459; cf. 150-51, pI. 379), various of the other realia of Apuleius and Symmachus persisted into the Christianized empire (e.g., Latte 1960: 671-72)-leaving for continued debate how much Christian "victory" assimilated and was informed by the pietas that Christians such as Ambrose and Augustine so stoutly opposed.4J
40 On the dating of the Saturnalia to ca. 430 CE and its "sentimental pagan atmosphere" and "sentimental antiquarian and nostalgic idealization of the past" see Cameron (1968; here: 36). 41 Eusebius, Bcel. Hist. 6.19; Chadwick 1966: 103. 42 Downey (1959: 343); on this cult-and-culture tie in this period see, for example, Baynes (1955); Downey (1959); Brown (1967). 43 I gratefully acknowledge the financial support for this research from a grant funded by the Wilfrid Laurier University Operating funds. I am also grateful to my colleagues Peter Erb, Ron Grimes and Tim Hegedus fur helpful commenrs and suggestions.
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References Abt,Adam 1908
Die Apologie des Apuleius von Madaura und die antike Zauberei. GieBen: Topelmann. Arendt, Hannah 1958 The Human Condition. Chicago/London: University of Chicago Press. Barnes, Timothy D. 1990 "Religion and Society in the Age of Theodosius." In Hugo Meynell (cd.), Grace, Politics and Desire: Essays on Augustine, 157-75. Calgaty: University of Calgary Press. Barrow, R. H. Prefect and Emperor: The Relationes of Symmachus 384. Oxford: 1973 Clarendon. Baynes, Norman Hepburn 1955 Byzantine Studies and Other Essays. London: Athlone. Bellow, Saul "A Silver Dish." In John Updike and Katrina Kenison (cds.), The 1979 Best American Short Stories of the Century, 539-64. Boston/New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1999. [reprinted from The New Yorker] Betz, Hans Dieter, ed. 1992 [1986] The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation, Including the Demotic Spells. Second ed. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Bloch, Herbert 1945 "A New Document of the Last Pagan Revival in the West, 393-394 A.D." Harvard Theological Review 38: 199-244. Brown, Peter 1967 Augustine of Hippo: A Biography. Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press. 1981 The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Cameron, Alan 1968 "Gratian's Repudiation of the Pontifical Robe." Journal of Roman Studies 58: 96-102. Chadwick, Henry 1966 Early Christian Thought and the Classical Tradition: Studies in Justin, Clement, and Origen. Oxford: Clarendon. Coyle, Kevin 1981 "Empire and Eschaton: The Early Church and the Question of Domestic Relationships." Eglise et theologie 12: 35-94.
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Croke, Brian and Jill Harries
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Religious Conj1ict in Fourth-Century Rome: A Documentary Study.
Sydney: Sydney University Press. Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly and Eugene Rochberg-Halton
1981
The Meaning of Things: Domestic Symbols and the Self. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press. Downey, Glanville 1959 "Julian and Justinian and the Unity of Faith and Culture." Church
History 28: 339-49. Faraone, Christopher A. and Dirk Obbink, eds. 1991 Magika Hiera: Ancient Greek Magic and Religion. New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gager, John 1992 Curse Tablets and Binding Spells from the Ancient World. New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gamble, Harry Y. 1995 Books and Readers in the Early Church: A History of Early Christian Texts. New Haven/London: Yale University Press. Geffcken, Johannes 1978 [1920] The Last Days of Greco-Roman Paganism. Trans. Sabine MacCormack. Amsterdam: North-Holland. Graf, Fritz 1991 "Prayer in Magic and Religious Ritual." In Faraone and Obbink,
Magika Hiera, 188- 213. Gransden, K. W. 1962 E. M. Forster. Edinburgh/London: Oliver and Boyd. Grimes, Ronald L. 1999 Contribution to "Forum: American Spirituality." Religion in American Culture 9: 145-52. Haenchen, Ernst 1959 (1946) Die Apostelgeschichte. Twelfth ed. Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Helgeland, John 1983 "The Transformation of Christianity into Roman Religion." In Peter Slater and Donald Wiebe, with Maurice Boutin and Harold Coward (eds.), Traditions in Contact and Change: Selected Proceedings of the
XIVth Congress of the International Association for the History of Religion, 337-45. Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. Hopkins, Keith
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"Christian Number and Its Implications." Journal of Early Christian
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1960 Romische Religionsgeschichte. Miinchen: Beck. Lewis, C. T. and C. Short 1907 A New Latin Dictionary. New York: American Book Company. MacDonald, Margaret Y. 1996
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MacMullen, Ramsay
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Paganism in the Roman Empire, New Haven/London: Yale University
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Christianizing the Roman Empire (A.D. 100-400), New Haven/London:
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Ancient World, 308-30. O'Brien, Tim 1987
"The Things They Carried." In Updike and Kenison, The Best American Short Stories of the Century, 616-32. [reprinted from Esquire]
Ozick, Cynthia 1981 "The Shawl." In Updike and Kenison, The Best American Short Stories of the Century, 576-80. [reprinted from The New Yorker]
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[1920-23] M. Tulti Ciceronis. De divinatione. Lihri duo. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft.
Phillips, C. R., III
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"Nullum crimen sine lege: Socioreligious Sanctions on Magic." In Faraone and Obbink, Magika Hiera, 260-76.
Preisendanz, Karl, ed. and trans.
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Papyri Graecae Magicac: Die griechischen Zauberpapyri. 3 vols. Leipzig/Berlin: Teubner. [reprinted in 2 vols., ed. by A. Henrichs.
Stuttgart: Teubner, 1973-741 Remus, Harold '''Magic or Miracle?': Some Second-Century Instances." The Second 1982a Century 2: 127-56. "Does Terminology Distinguish Early Christian from Pagan 1982b Miracles?" Journal of Biblical Literature 101: 531-51. Pagan-Christian Conflict Over Miracle in the Second Century. 1983 Cambridge, MA: Philadelphia Patristic Foundation. "Outsidellnside: Celsus on Jewish and Christian nomoi." In Jacob 1987 Neusner, Peder Borgen, Ernest S. Frerichs and Richard A. Horsley (eds.), Religion, Literature, and Society in Ancient Israel, Formative Christianity and Judaism, 133-50. Lanham: University Press of America. "Magic, Method, Madness." Method and Theory in the Study of 1999a Religion 11: 258-98. "'Unknown and Yet Well-Known': The Multiform Formation of 1999b Early Christianity." In Ben Wright (ed.), A Multiform Heritage: Studies in Early Judaism and Christianity in Honor of Robert A. Kraft, 79-93. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Sedgwick, Rae 1981 Family Mental Health. St. Louis: Mosby. Shelton, Jo-Ann 1998 [1988] As the Romans Did: A Source Book in Roman Social History. Second ed. New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sherwin-White, A. N. 1966 The Letters of Pliny: A Historical and Social Commentary. Oxford: Clarendon. Snyder, Graydon F.
1985
Ante Pacem: Archaeological Evidence of Church Life Before Constantine. Macon: Mercer University Press.
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Stark, Rodney 1996 The Rise of Christianity: A Sociologist Reconsiders History. Princeton: Princeton University Press. [reprinted as The Rise of Christianity: How the Obscure, MarginalJesus Movement Became the Dominant Religious Force in the Western World in a Few Centuries. San Francisco: HarperCollins, 1997] Stock, Brian 1996 Augustine the Reader: Meditation, Self-Knowledge, and the Ethics of Interpretation, Cambridge, MA/London: Harvard University Press. Vallette, Paul, ed, and trans. 1924 Apulee: Apologie. Florides. Paris: Societe d'edition "Les Belles Lettres." Van der Heyden, A. A. M. and H. H. Scullard, eds. 1959 Atlas of the Classical World. London: Nelson. Weinstock, Stefan 1957 "Victor and Invictus." Harvard Theological Review 50: 211-47. Wilken, Robert L. 1984 The Christians as the Romans Saw Them. New Haven/London: Yale University Press.
30
APULEIUS THE NOVELIST, APULEIUS THE OSTIAN HOUSEHOLDER AND THE MITHRAEUM OF THE SEVEN SPHERES: FURTHER EXPLORAnONS OF AN HYPOTHESIS OF FILIPPO COARELLI ROGER BECK
In 1989, the Roman archaeologist and topographer Filippo Coarelli advanced the daring hypothesis that the proprietor of the Casa di Apuleio at Ostia was the same person as Apuleius of Madaura, the author of the (to us) well-known novel, The Golden Ass (or Metamorphoses). This identification, if true, is more than a mere prosopographical curiosity. The Casa di Apuleio is contiguous with, and has access to, the Mithraeum of the Seven Spheres. These two structures, in turn, are integrated into the design of a larger, pre-existing complex, the area of the "Four Temples" (see Fig. 1). The Ostian householder, then, seems to have been deeply involved in the religious life of his community, in particular with one of the mystery cults. So, of course, both in his own right and in the persona of his hero, Lucius, was Apuleius the author. The mysteries of The Golden Ass were those of Isis, while the mysteries celebrated in the complex of the Casa di Apuleio were those of Mithras. It is one of the enigmas of the novel that Mithras is the name chosen by Apuleius for the mystagogue and priest who first inducts Lucius into the mysteries of Isis. If Apuleius the novelist was indeed the Ostian householder and patron of the Mithraists of Sette Sfere, it would cast an interesting light not only on the author and his work but also on Mithraism in the local context. Whether in this instance text and artifact are really linked will likely remain an open question, but it is one whose implications are worth some further exploration. I hope the quest will pique Peter Richardson's interest. On one ofCoarelli's arguments a negative answer has to be returned, but it is not
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fatal to the identification, and the removal of a false linkage will leave the hypothesis more plausible. 1. Coarelli's Argument Let us first review Coarelli's reasons for identifying the author with the householder, together with his interpretation of the house in its sacred context. First, fundamental to the argument is the relationship of the house to the mithraeum and to the complex of the "Quattro T empietti." The house and the mithraeum are contemporary mid-second-century CE buildings with a common wall (on the mithraeum's east side and the west end of the house), and there was interconnection between them. Coarelli (1989: 38) notes that the more public rooms and, significantly, the kitchen were located at the mithraeum end of the house. The area of the Four Temples is an older, Republican complex. Against earlier views that the house represented a new private intrusion on a sacred public precinct, Coarelli (1989: 27-32) argues persuasively that the complex had integrated residential and religious functions from the outset. Whatever the case, it is clear that the house and the mithraeum were integrally planned and that the mithraeum was co-ordinated with the row of the Four Temples: it is located directly behind them and precisely aligned with the centre of the row (see Fig. 1). Second, the owner of the house is securely attested by his name on two lead water pipes discovered in the area immediately to the south (Coarelli
1989: 27, 33). He was L Apuleius Marcellus. The Gentile name is not otherwise attested at Ostia. The praenomen is the same as the author's, although that is often interpreted as a reflex from the name of the novel's hero
(1989: 39-40). The significance of the cognomen, in C03relli's account, will be immediately apparent in the next paragraph. Apuleius the author certainly lived in Rome for a time, and a few details of Book 11 of The Golden Ass which are set there are generally believed to be autobiographical. Some maintain that he wrote The Golden Ass for a specifically Roman audience (Dowden 1994). That Ostia might have been his residential base at the time cannot be excluded. The chronology would fit with that of the Casa di Apuleio (Coarelli
1989: 38-40).
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Third, in the precinct of the Four Temples there is what was likely the base of an equestrian statue, and a stone found nearby (CIL 14.4447) 1 likely records its dedication and the person represented (Coarelli 1989; 34). He was a man of distinction, the city's "patron," who also attained the consulship, Q. Asinius Marcellus. The statue would date to the time of the reconstruction of the precinct area in mid cenrury (shortly after 148 CE, to judge from the stamps on the drainage tiles; 1989; 32}. It was a public dedication, but Coarelli (1989; 35) reasonably argues that the householder Apuieius would have played an influential part in the choice of honorand for the precinct, as in its restructuring. Coarelli's reason for pursuing the link between L. Apuleius Marcellus and
Q. Asinius Marcellus lies of course in The Golden Ass. At Metamorplwses 11.27, the very point at which the author breaks cover, as it were, and assigns to his narrator Lucius his own home town of Madaura, an Asinius Marcellus is introduced. Lucius has a dream in which a devotee of Osiris (Serapis) appears to invite him into the god's initiation, an event that Lucius was already expecting. The devotee could be recognized by a lame left foot. On awakening, Lucius hastens to find the devotee, whom he quickly identifies among the god's
pastopfwri. He is Asinius Marcellus, and he has himself had the complementary dream in which he was ordered by the god to induct the "man from Madaura"
(Madaurensem). The name Asinius, as the narrator makes explicit, is appropriate in the light of Lucius's retransformation from asinine to human shape. But of more consequence is the fact that precisely here Lucius the narrator is now assimilated to Apuleius the Madauran author. If Lucius/Apuleius or-to bring the two into a single focus-L. Apuleius is "getting real," surely reality cannot here be denied Asinius Marcellus. It seems, then, that Apuleius is here paying a compliment to an actual Roman friend (and, presumably, fellow devotee ofIsis and Osiris), Asinius Marcellus. The pair, on Coarelli's hypothesis, are identical with the contemporary L. Apuleius Marcellus and Q. Asinius Marcellus, linked as developer and honorand in the same Ostian precinct. To suppose otherwise is stretching coincidence too far. Apuleius's Ostian cognomen is explained likewise as a tribute to a senior friend and likely patron.
CIL, Corpus inscriptionum latinarum, ed. the Berlin Royal Academy. Berlin: Reimer,
1863-1974.
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Fourth, Apuleius the novelist remarkably gives the Isiac priest who rescues and inducts Lucius into the mysteries the name of Mithras. This somewhat surprising choice is understandable if the author is the Ostian Apuleius who integrated and privileged a mithraeum in the redesign of his house and the whole precinct. More needs
to
be said on this choice of nomenclature, given
its centrality to John Winkler's reading of the novel in Auctor & Actor (1985), which is probably still the most influential critical work (at least in English) on
The Golden Ass. I shall return to this topic below. Fifth, Coarel1i (1989: 36-38) rightly draws attention to the cosmology of the Mithraeum of the Seven Spheres (on which see Beck 1979; 1988: 12-14; 1992: 4-7; 1994; Gordon 1976; 1988: 50.60). As its (modern) name indicates, its floor mosaic depicts seven stylized semicircles representing the seven spheres of the planets; and the mosaics on its side benches (on which initiates would have reclined, as in all mithraea, for their cult meal) are embellished with symbols of the signs of the zodiac and images of six of the planetary gods (the seventh, the Sun, being represented by Mithras, the "unconquered Sun god," in his image as bull-slayer at the head of the aisle) (see Fig. 2). Coarelli compares this cosmology with the cosmology found in the works of Apuleius, and in particular with the order of the planets found in two passages (De dog. Plat. 1.11 j De rnun. 2), which he concludes is the same as that found in the disposition of the images of the planetary gods around the Mithracum of the Seven Spheres. Coarelli is correct about the broad similarity between the ideologies of the mithraeum (and Mithraism in general) and Apuleius. Both can be characterized as Platonic. But so, at that time, could much else. The broad comparison, then, is of little use in postulating a precise causal link. The particular comparison of planetary orders, however, ifit were correct, would be much more telling, especially if, as Coarelli contends, it was also unattested elsewhere in antiquity. Unfortunately, on this Coarelh is entirely mistaken, and our first task will be to prune away this spurious link. There is, however, a better, if less decisive, connection between novel and mithraeum to be put in its place.
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2. Cosmic Sequence In addressing the shared planetary order that Coarelli postulates, one should note first that its two occurrences in Apuleius are in works whose authenticity is disputed (Harrison 1996). If the order were indeed found only in the mithraeum and in the two Apuleian passages, and if we were to accept the identity of the two Apuleii, then the shared order might help to confirm the genuineness of De
dogmate Platanis and De mundo. As will be shown, however, the premise of the unique shared order is false, so the two works in question remain of doubtful relevance to any inquiry about the identity of Apuleius the author. The order of the planets in De dogmate Platonis 1.11 and De mundo 2 is as follows (from farthest to nearest): Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Mercury, Venus, Sun, Moon. It is not unique to Apuleius (or Pseudo-Apuleius) and Sette Sfere; rather it is the order given by Plato himself in the Republic (616a-17e) and the
Timaeus (38). What distinguishes it from the order that was in more general use in antiquity is the relative positions of Mercury, Venus and the Sun. With good reason, the ancients determined that the slower a planet moved, i.e., the longer it took to complete its apparent circuit of the earth (technically, its sidereal period), the farther its orbit from the earth. But Mercury, Venus and the Sun have the same mean (geocentric) sidereal period: on average-but the Sun precisely-they take a year to complete a circuit. These three planets, then, were located between Mars (approximately two years) and the Moon (one month), but their assigned location relative to each other, being arbitrary, varied. Mainly in order to locate the Sun in a ruling position in the middle of the sequence, Hellenistic and subsequent astronomy favoured the order (progressing inward): Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Sun, Venus, Mercury, Moon. But the older Platonic order persisted. The Platonic order, however, is not what one finds in the Mithraeum of the Seven Spheres-nor, for that matter, anywhere else in Mithraism (on esoteric and exoteric planetary orders, see Beck 1988). Coarelli argues that the order in the mithraeum is a modification of the Platonic order. What one finds, following his zigzag across (Saturn to Jupiter, Venus to Mercury, Mars to the Moon) and down Oupiter to Venus, Mercury to Mars) the side benches, is:
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(Sun)
JUPite<~ I Satum Mcrcury
~= Venut
Moon I
-<~
Mars
First, of course, the Sun has been excluded. But the Sun, as Coarelli admits, is present in the mithraeum in the image of the bull-killing Mithras at the head of the aisle. Any reading of the mithraeum's planetary order should accordingly take into account the position of that image relative to the other six images. As a glance at the layout above will show, the Sun's position at Sette Sfere is incompatible with its location in the Platonic sequence. More seriously, the Platonic sequence can be read back into the other six planets only by transposing Venus and Mars (see layout). Coarelli finds a reason for the transposition in the need to move the image of Mars close to the symbol of the dagger set into the floor mosaic nearby. But this begs the question; or rather, it assumes that there is a question to be answered. The simpler, and surely correct, supposition is that with three of the seven planets out of place no intention to exemplify the Platonic order at Sette Sfere is discernible. 2 3. The Novel and the Mithraeurn If a particular planetary sequence cannot link the Mithraeum of the Seven Spheres to the author Apuleius, there is another shared concern that can. More accurately, there is a shared concern that, if one entertains the hypothesis of a single Apuleius behind both novel and mithraeum, comes sharply and profitably into focus.
2 I am not convinced that a better explanation than my own (Beck 1979) has yet been offered: that the order commemorates the positions of the planets relative to the Sun at the spring equinox of 172 CEo This can be reconciled most simply with the chronology of CoareIIi's hypothesis on the assumption that the mosaics of the planetary gods on the faces of the side benches were added (adapted?) at that date. They are, in a sense, redundant to the mithraeum's basic cosmology, lhe full set of planets being already represented by the spheres in the aiole mosaic.
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One may start with the reason why Sette Sfere is emhellished as it is with elaborate cosmological symbols (Beck 1992: 4-7, 1994: 106-10). Emphatically, it was not an arbitrary matter of taste. Although it might seem a contradiction, the cosmological decor was actually quite functional. We know this not by inference from the archaeological remains, but directly from the written testimony of an ancient author. In his essay "On the Cave of the Nymphs in the Odyssey" (De antra nympharum) , the Neoplatonist philosopher Porphyry informs us of the function and design of the archetypal mithraeum, and thus of the intent of all mithraea (Sette Sfere happens to be the extant mithraeum in which that design is most explicit): Similarly, the Persians [i.e., the Mithraistsl call the place a cave where they introduce an initiate to the mysteries, revealing to him the path by which souls descend and go back again. For Eubulus tells us that Zoroaster was the first to dedicate a natural cave in honour of Mithras, the creator and father of all. ... This cave bore for him the image of the cosmos which Mithras had created, and the things which the cave contained, by their proportionate arrangement, provided him with symbols of the elements and climates of the cosmos. (De antra 6, trans. Arethusa) In other words, a mithraeum is called a "cave" (a fact, incidentally, confirmed by archaeology) because a cave is an image of the universe and the mithraeum is intended to be, precisely, a microcol;m. Accordingly, it is equipped (exactly as we find it at Sette Sfere) with cosmological symbols. The function of this form is to effect, presumably by ritual action, induction into a mystery of the soul's descent and return (Beck 1988).3 Specifically, then, what L. Apulcius Marcellus's Mithraic neighbours were up to, what they used their "cosmic model" for, was the miming of a soul journey. Being a religious mystery, that soul journey was more than mere cosmic tourism; it represented, presumably, the Mithraic soul's salvation under the aegis of the cult's god, Mithras the Unconquered Sun.
3 A further ancient testimony, which specifically refers to the seven planetary spheres, is Origen, Contra Celsum 6.22 (quoting Celsus): 'These things are intimated in the doctrine of the Persians and their Mysteries of Mithras. They have a symbol of the two celestial revolutions, that of the fixed stars and that assigned to the planets, and of the road of the soul through and out of them [OIEe6oou]. The symbol is this: a seven-gated ladder [KAt~1(Xe elt'tcbtUAOC;] with an eighth at the top."
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T uming to The GoldenAss, we find set in the centre of the novel the story of Cupid and Psyche, the story, that is, of Soul in her quest for Love, a story of union, separation and re-union, a story of joumeyings both literal and spiritual, a story of descent to the underworld and return. Most would agree that it is a paradigm of Lucius's own journey, a journey that will bring him out of the realm of blind and malicious Fate to the kindly Providence of Isis. However that may be, we have incontrovertible evidence that there were Mithraists who interpreted the figures of Cupid and Psyche as germane to their own mysteries. A relief set in the wall of a mithraeum not far distant at Capua depicts the pair (Vermaseren 1971: 22-23, pl. 20). It might indeed have been commissioned for the mithraeum; it might also have been a pre-existing piece recycled into the mithraeum opportunistically as a metaphor of its initiations.
4. The Gods The Casa di Apuleio and Mitreo delle Sette Sfere were constructed as elements in the remodelling of the complex of the Quattro T empietti. The mithraeum, as we saw, is centred on the north side immediately behind the row of temples (Fig. 1). Coarelli does not discuss the gods of the temples, although, arguably, they are germane to The Golden Ass, particularly to the story of Cupid and Psyche. The original developer of the complex and the builder of the temples in the first century BeE was a prominent Ostian, P. Lucilius Gamala (Coarelli 1989: 29). There is general agreement that the temples are the four dedicated to Venus, Fortuna, Ceres and Spes (with some uncertainty about the last), which are listed among Gamala's achievements (CIL 14.3 75). An inscribed altar found in the easternmost temple confirms it as that of Venus (CIL 14.4127). Each of these gods, or the abstract which she personifies, is of some importance to the novel and to its inset allegory, the story of Cupid and Psyche. Venus, at one level, is both the villain of the allegory and a somewhat comical figure. Jealous of Psyche's beauty, she sets her son to punish the presumptuous girl, and when Cupid falls in love with her, she persecutes Psyche relentlessly until Jupiter (who, incidentally, has an open-air shrine, the Sacello di Giove, in the same Ostian precinct) calls a happy ending and blesses the union of the couple. But Venus is also a more serious and dangerous figure both as the goddess of sensual love-hence a symbol of one half of Lucius's problems-and, more benignly, as a major manifestation of Isis, invoked as
ApULEIUS
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Venus caelestis by Lucius when he hails the rising full moon at the turning point of his fortunes (Met. 11.2). Ceres too plays a role, though a more minor one, in the story of Cupid and Psyche. It is to her shrine that Psyche comes in her wanderings, tidying the disarrayed harvest offerings and appealing (though in vain) for protection in return (6.1-3). Psyche invokes Ceres, qua DemeterofEleusis, as a mystery god. These too are mysteries of descent and return {demeacula ... remeacula}-as, with very different modalities, were those practised in the neighbouring Ostian mithraeum.1t is remarkable that in the frame narrative, when Lucius makes his appeal to the lunar Isis (11.2), he invokes her first as Ceres alma and secondly, as we have noted, as Venus caelestis. The centrality of Fortuna to The Golden Ass needs no demonstation, for it is agreed by all. Lucius, as the priest (whose name, we shall subsequently learn, is Mithras) explains, has been brought unawares through the persecutions of "blind Fortune" (caecitas Jortunae) "into the protection of Fortunae with sight"
(in tutelam ... Jortunae ... videntis) (11.15). This Providence is of course Isis. In The Golden Ass, the gods Venus, Ceres and Fortuna are all explicitly related to Isis as her manifestations. The same cannot be claimed of Spes (Hope), although hope too plays its part in the novel. Hope, often enough cruelly disappointed, is what keeps both Psyche and Lucius going. Observe how at the turning point, immediately before Lucius invokes the lunar Isis as Ceres and Venus, hope (of salvation) is linked with fate to describe the crisis: "fato scilicet iam meis tot tantisque cladibus satiato et spem salutis, licet tardam, sumministrante" (11.1). These points of comparison should not be pressed too far. I do not wish to suggest that The Golden Ass is some sort of roman aclef. It is more a matter of enhancing one's reading of the novel on the working hypothesis of the identity of its author with the redesigner of the Ostian sacred precinct. Two general considerations about ancient temples are here worth bearing in mind. First, visiting temples and contemplating their design and sacred furniture (statuary, etc.) were in themselves modes of spiritual journeying (Elsner 1995: 91-93}-thus analogous to the pilgrimage (I use the word advisedly) of a Lucius or a Psyche. Second, in rhetoric the temple, qua building, and the disposition of its features and furniture could serve as a standard mnemonic for fixing the sequence of an argument or narrative (Elsner 1995: 76-80). The
560
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
congruency of a narratological construct with a spatial construct visually comprehended would thus be greater for the ancient mentality than for ours. In form, a temple complex could well be a potential narrative. Let us now turn to the last of the temples integrated with the complex, the Mithraeum of the Seven Spheres. The god Mithras plays no part in The Golden
Ass, although his name, as we have seen, is appropriated for the priest of Isis and Lucius's initiator. There is, however, a Mithraic deity of some importance who does figure in the novel. We have met her already. She is the Moon, in the guise of which Isis herself appears at the turning point of Lucius's fortunes, when a relenting fate at last seems to offer hope, and whom he then invokes as
Ceres and Venus. The Moon is precisely positioned in the Mithraeum of the Seven Spheres. Not only is her image as planetary god close to the entrance (on the left bench as one enters) but, more importantly, hers is the first of the seven spheres in the floor mosaic as one prepares to proceed up the aisle. 4 The aisle of the mithraeum with its progression of arciform planetary spheres forms a centred perpendicular axis to the row of the Four Temples (Figs. 1 and 2). At the foot of the aisle and the start of this planetary progression one stands at the sphere of the Moon. Otherwise stated, if we are to integrate mithraeum, temples and novel, it is at this point, spatially and temporally, that one encounters Isis-Luna. What are the implications, if we allow the merging of the two Apuleii? The first point to be made is that while the temples of the original complex were (presumably) places of public access, the mithraeum most certainly was not. It follows that if the entire redesigned complex (i.e., Four Temples, Shrine of Jupiter, Nymphaeum, Mithraeum, Casa di Apuleio) functioned as one of the templates of the novel and its inset allegory, it was a template incomprehensible to those outside the community of the Mithraeum of the Seven Spheres. On another tack, however, one would hardly suggest that the novel was intended for a Mithraic audience. Such a suggestion would be incredible in itself and, more to the point, contrary to what the novel tells us about its readership. The audience of The Golden Ass is the sympathetic outsider. This is both implicit in the narration and explicit at the climax of Lucius's initiation
4 Although the spheres are represented as indistinguishable arcs, the inmost in the nest of arcs is necessarily the Moon's, since her sphere is closest to earth.
ApULEIUS
561
(11.23). However well-intentioned (desiderio forsitan religioso), the reader's curiosity concerning Lucius's experience has to be denied. The narrator will convey it enigmatically. What the reader hears will be true-but incomprehensible. Here are the two sentences bracketing the revelation: "Igitur audi, sed crede, quae vera sunt.... Ecce tibi rettuli quae, quamvis audita, ignores tamen necesse est." In point of fact, what Lucius relates is utterly transparent. It is an encounter with the gods, in particular lsis-Proserpina, expressed in the idiom of celestial/underworld soul-travel. One wonders why Lucius so emphasizes its opacity. Coarelli's hypothesis furnishes a possible answer. The Mithraeum of the Seven Spheres is a part of the complex that furnishes what I have called one of the templates for the composition of The Golden Ass. But it is a secret part, reserved, as it were, for Apuleius as the redesigner of the complex, the householder with access to the mithraeum, and the novel's author. What will not be understood by the "minds of the uninitiated" (profanorum intelligentias) is the significance of the Mithraic overtones latent in the description of the Isiac initiation and explicit in the name of the Isiac priest, Mithras. Once attention is drawn to them, the latent Mithraic overtones are obvious enough. Principally, they reside in the description's solar emphasis. Lucius may "tread the threshold ofProserpina" (= Isis), but the one god whom he singles out as there encountered is the Sun (= Mithras). Even the language is redolent ofSol-Mithras illuminated in the dark of the Mithraic "cave": nocte
media vidi solem candido coruscantem lumine. At the close of the initiation, when Lucius is revealed to an admiring public (11.24), it is in the guise of the Sun that he appears: sic ad instar Solis exornato me. Finally, the initiatory experience itself is described as a journey (there and back again) which may be read equally as infernal and celestial: I came to the boundary of death and, having trodden the threshold of Proserpina, I travelled through all the elements and returned. In the middle of the night I saw the Sun flashing with bright light. I came face to face with the gods below and the gods above and paid reverence to them from close at hand. (trans. Hanson) When we recall that a standard meaning of elementum is "planet," the celestial dimensions of the journey are clear. But the celestial voyage is characteristic of
562
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Mithraism, and nowhere more explicitly than at Sette Sfere. An initiate processing up and down its central aisle does indeed "travel through all the elements and return"; at the foot of the aisle he does indeed "tread the threshold ofProserpina," for the first of the spheres is the Moon's; and at the head of the aisle he has approached and adored de proximo the Sun in the person of the bull-killing Mithras. As Merkelbach (1995: viii) has taught us, some of the language of The Golden Ass (especially in Book 11) is to be read quite literally at the level of ritual performance. Applying Coarelli's hypothesis, we find that the full significance of Lucius's initiation, of which the uninitiated reader "will necessarily remain unaware" (despite the flaunting ofMithras's name), is that it tracks through a particular spatial complex of which the Mithraeum of the Seven Spheres is the key component, at least in the author's template.
5. Mithras That Apuleius uses the name Mithras for his Isiac priest is of course one of the major props of Coarelli's hypothesis. The choice of name has long fascinated critics of The Golden Ass. It is placed by Winkler at a climax in his interpretation of the novel (1985: 233 -46). Having rejected a number of other explanations of the narrator's stance in the concluding book, including the-to me (Beck 1996b: 140, 146-47)-very satisfactory one that Lucius adopts the role of arewlogos and temple exegetes, Winkler suggests a more subversive, indeterminate, humorous stance. That stance is exemplified in naming the Isiac priest "Mithras." It is not meant to convey additional religious authority, but rather to reproduce, through surprise, the shock of an initiatory experience. In a rather forced analogy, Winkler compares it to "introducing the pope in the last chapter of a detective novel and calling him Martin Luther" (1985: 245). Coarelli's hypothesis, I suggest, retains the element of playfulness which Winkler rightly sees in the choice of name but gives it a point that it otherwise lacks. Shock value is an unconvincing explanation. Theophoric names referring to
a god in the context of another's cult are not uncommon, even among the
Christians where one might suppose them especially offensive. As an example. let me cite Bishop Mithres ofHypaipa who participated in the Council of Nicaea (Gelzer, Hilgenfeld and Cuntz 1995 [1898]: 225)! The name, then, is not unrealistic or portentous in itself. But it is, if Coarelli is right, a highly charged "mystery" whose significance lies in the template of the Ostian sacred complex.
563
ArULEIUS
6. Conclusion So far we have looked at some of the implications of Coarelli's hypothesis for a reading of The Golden Ass. In this concluding section we should turn to the implications for Mithraism and especially the Sette Sfere community (on Mithraism in Ostia, see Laeuchli 1967; Bakker 1994: 111-17,204-47; Rainer
1984). There is space to make two brief points. First, there is, to my knowledge, no other mithraeum in the Roman world so integrated into the plan of a major building complex. Usually, in an urban context mithraea were located opportunistically in rooms within larger buildings serving other functions, mostly non-religious (White 1990: 47-59). There was good reason for this. Ideologically, the mithraeum is a "cave" representing the universe; thus, its exterior and its relationship to other structures are irrelevant. At Sette Sfere, following the norm, no attention was paid to the exterior; as far as one can tell, in appearance it was simply a wing of the easa di Apuleio. Actually, though, as a glance at the plan (Fig. 1) reveals, it is integrated into the plan of the Quattro T empietti complex. Indeed, in a sense it is at the apex of the complex. That "fact," however, would not be apparent to the casual visitor. In other words, the "fact," and hence the full plan of the complex, are esoteric truths, comprehensible only to a Mithraist-and of course to Apuleius the householder and designer. It is worth noting that our "fact" is entirely independent of the householder's identity. It does, though, suggest a person of some forcefulness and originality, in that he took members of this particular Mithraic community down the unusual path of integrating their "cave" into a larger complex of sacred space, albeit without compromising their "mystery." This brings us to the second point: Apuleius the novelist, if the householder is he, as Mithraic patron, and the Mithraists as clients of Apuleius the novelist. On the former, it is unnecessary to imagine the novelist as a full-blown Mithraic initiate, let alone as a crypto-Father of the community. Patronage by the elite without full participation is attested elsewhere. As I have argued (Beck 1996a: 179) the dedications by the latic!ave tribunes, persons of senatorial rank, in the mithraeum in their house in Aquincum are best explained as a local practice of elite patronage rather than as a succession of I
elite Mithraists recruited there and only there. As for the Sette Sfere Mithraists as clients of Apuleius the novelist, I have already argued that they were
564
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
certainly not the intended audience of The Golden Ass. Indeed, it is unnecessary to suppose that even a single Mithraist at Sette Sfere was cognizant of the authorial template in which his mithraeum figured, although some of them must have been aware of the integration of mithraeum with temple complex on which the template was based. Nevertheless, Coarelli's hypothesis docs imply a certain level of sophistication in the mysteries and their initiates. Mithraeum and house are so closely integrated that one cannot suppose that an immense spiritual and cultural gulf separated Apuleius and his Mithraic clients. Sette Sfere in any case, with its elaborate astrology, is one of the most "learned" of mithraea; so one may readily postulate a two-way exchange between its initiates and Apuleius, that most religiously curious of authors. The idea in itself is not preposterous. Indeed, we know for a fact that Mithraists at some stage did communicate with the intelligentsia. Accurate information reached the Neoplatonists and Porphyry in particular, and Pallas and Eubulus (on whom see Turcan 1975) must have talked to Mithraists in order to write their books on Mithras. There is a tendency these days to "dumb down" the Mithraists, to set them in an unintellectual world apart (e.g., Swerdlow 1991; contra, Rainer 1984, arguing for a higher social and cultural level for the Ostian Mithraists). If nothing else, Coarelli's hypothesis poses in a vivid way the more likely picture of the Mithraists as including folk both intelligent and imaginative.
565
ApULEIUS
Fig. 1 (= Coarelli 1989: fig. 1, composite from Scavi di Ostia Ij north at top) Plan of the area of the Quattro Tempietti (2), showing their integration with the Domus di Apuleio (5) and the Mitreo delle Sette Sfere (6) in the second century CE remodelling. The Temple of Venus is the easternmost (right).
~~-1;{1lI¥;':f;~~,'<1
I
I I j
'~ ~J!i!" 'n~ ~f"lt!:l i :P: ¥~li'l'(;~t~;~: ).'i'! :i,[J;'li
"."_."7""~"~'~"_'__~'<."~~~ "_'~'_ • •_~_.'_
._.~ _ _ _ ....l
Fig. 2 (= Coarelli 1989: fig. 8, from Scavi di Ostia II; north at right) Plan of the Mitreo delle Sette Sfere. The planetary spheres are represented as arcs on the floor of the aislej the signs of the zodiac by images on the side benches (six on each side), running from Aries (NW) counterclockwise around to Pisces (NE)j six of the planetary gods by images on the faces of the side benches; the seventh, the Sun, by the image ofthe bull-killing Mithras at the head of the aisle (N).
566
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
References Bakker, Jan Theo
1994
Living and Working with the Gods: Studies of Evidence for Private Religion and Its Material Environment in the City of Ostia (1 00-500 AD). Amsterdam: GieBen.
Beck, Roger 1979 1988 1992
"Sette Sfere, Sette Porte, and the Spring Equinoxes of A.D. 172 and 173." In Ugo Bianchi (ed.), Mysteria Mithrae, 515-30. Leiden: Brill. Planetary Gods and Planetary Orders in the Mysteries of Mithras. Leiden: Brill. "The Mithras Cult as Association." Studies in Religion/Sciences
Religieuses 21: 3-13. 1994
1996a
1996b
"Cosmic Models: Some Uses of Hellenistic Science in Roman Religion." In Timothy D. Barnes (ed.), The Sciences in Greco-Roman Society, 99-117. Edmonton: Academic Printing and Publishing. "The Mysteries ofMithras." InJohn S. Kloppenborg and Stephen G. Wilson (eds.), Voluntary Associations in the Graeco-Roman World, 176-85. London: Routledge. "Mystery Religions, Aretalogy and the Ancient NoveL" In Gareth Schmeling (ed.), The Novel in the Ancient World, 131-50. Leiden: Brill.
Coarelli, Filippo 1989 "Apuleio a Ostia?" Dialoghi diArcheologia 7: 27-42. Dowden, Ken "The Roman Audience of The Golden Ass." In James Tatum (ed.), 1994 The Search for the Ancient Novel, 419-34. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Elsner, Jas 1995 Art and the Roman Viewer: The Transformation of Art from the Pagan World w Christianity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gelzer, Heinrich, Henricus Hilgenfeld and Otto Cuntz 1995 [1898] Patrum Nicaenorum Nomina. Stuttgart: Teubner. Gordon, Richard L. 1976 "The Sacred Geography of a Mithraeum: The Example of Sette Sfere." Journal of Mithraic Studies 1: 119-65. 1988 "Authority, Salvation and Mystery in the Mysteries ofMithras." In J. M. Huskinson, Mary Beard and Joyce Maire Reynolds (eds.), Image and Mystery in the Roman World: Three Papers Given in Memory of Jocelyn Toynbee, 45-80. Cambridge: Sutton.
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Harrison, Stephen J. 1996 "Apuleius." In The Oxford Classical Dictionary, 131-32. Third ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Laeuchli, Samuel 1967 Mithraism in Ostia. Chicago: Northwestern University Press. Merkelbach, Reinhold
1995
Isis regina, Zeus Sarapis: Die griechisch-agyptische Religion nach den Quellen dargestellt. Stuttgart: Teubner.
Rainer, Michael 1984 "Die Mithrasverehrung in Ostia." Klio 66: 104-13. Swerdlow, N. M. 1991 "On the Cosmical Mysteries of Mithras." Classical Philology 86: 48-63. T urcan, Robert 1975 Michras Platonicus. Leiden: Brill. Vermaseren, M. J. 1971 Mithraica I: The Mithraeum at S. Maria Capua Vetere. Leiden: Brill. White, L. Michael
1990
Building God's House in the Roman World: Architectural Adaptation Among Pagans, Jews, and Christians. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. [reprinted as Vol. 1 of The Social Origins o/Christian Architecture. Valley Forge: Trinity Press International, 1996]
Winkler, John J.
1985
Auctor & Actor: A Narratological Reading of Apuleius's Golden Ass. Berkeley: University of California Press.
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INDICES
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MODERN AUTHORS INDEX
Abegg, M., 253, 270 Abbott, E., 216, 224 Abt, A., 534-35, 546 Achtemeier, P., 27 Ackroyd, P. R., 287 Acsadi, G. T., 231, 247 Aland, K., 279-80, 282, 285 Albright, W. F., 451,453 Alexander, L. C. A, 79,84 Alliata, E., 400 Allison, D. c., 167, 173 Alon, G., 48, 58, 474, 499 Alonso-Schakel, L., 331, 339 Alt, A, 389-90, 399 Althusser, L., 220, 224 Altman, A, 526 Andre, J., 209, 219, 224 Anson, }., 215-16, 224 Applebaum, S., 363, 368, 373, 386 Arav, R., 176, 190 Arendt, H., 529, 546 Aries, P., 418 Armstrong, AM., 219, 224 Arnal, W. E., 29, 135, 142, 155-56, 159,173-75 Arndt, W. F., 155 Arnold, C. E., 198-99,204 Asad, T., 220, 224 Ascough, R. S., 91 Ashton, ].,395,399 Assmann, ].,507,523 Atkins, L. A, 407, 418 Avigad, N., 200, 255, 257-61, 263, 269 Avi-Yonah, M., 86, 280, 285, 474, 496, 499,500 Avni, G. A., 373, 377, 386
Bagatti, B., 309,311,313,316,319, 374,376,378-79,386 Bainbridge, W. 5., 402, 406, 422 Bakker, ]. T., 563, 566 Balch, D. L., 60-61, 70, 73, 294, 306, 403, 421 Baldovin,]. F., 311, 319 Bammel, E., 26, 118, 132, 176, 190 Bandmann, G., 286 Banks, R. J., 49, 52, 58, 60, 294,305 Banton, M., 422 Barclay,]. M. G., 58, 199, 204.356, 358,361,368 Barnes. T. D., 539-40, 544, 546, 566 Barr,]., 54, 58 Barrerra,]. T., 455 Barrett, C. K., 13, 92, 106 Barrow, R. H., 539-41, 543, 546 Bartchy, S. S., 96, 106 Barth, F., 168, 173,410,418 Barton, T. S., 219, 221, 224 Bates, F. L., 406, 418 Batey, R. A., 202, 204 Bauckham, R., 106 Bauer, W., 139, 142, 155,436,451,453 Bauernfeind, 0., 76, 84,465,471 Baumgarten, A L, 61, 415, 418 Baynes, N. H., 545-46 Beall, T. S., 437, 453 Bean, G. E., 75-76, 84 Beard, M., 235, 247,566 Beck,R.,551,554-57,562,564,566 Beckwith, J., 316, 319 Belke, K., 76-77, 84 Bellow, S., 528, 546 Benedict, R., 506, 523
572 Ben-Dav, M., 491, 499 Ben-Yehuda, N., 458-59, 464, 471 Ben-Sasson, H. H., 469, 471 Berger, A. B., 121, 132 Berggreen, B., 229-30 Bergmeier, R, 436-37, 440, 446,448,453 Bemand, A., 360, 368 Bertram, G., 179, 190, 389, 399 Betz, H. D., 55, 58, 512-13, 523,536, 546 Betz, 0., 28, 73 Bianchi, U., 566 Bickerman, E., 392, 399, 417·18 Bidez, J., 514, 523 Bilde, P., 227-28, 368, 399, 431,453 Birkhan, H., 81, 84 Black, M., 253, 269, 279-80, 285, 370, 453,473 Blanchard, A., 272, 285, 287-88 Bloch, H., 540, 542-43,546 Bockmuchl, M., 51, 58 BOismal'd, M. E., 93, 106 BOissevain, ).,403,406,418 BoH6k, J., 214, 224 Bond, H. K., 178-90 Bonner, C, 194, 204 Borgen, P., 58, 72, 356, 361, 363-64, 368,549 Bomkamm, G., 13, 75, 79, 84 Bott, E., 406, 418 Bourdieu, P., 213, 224 Boutin, M., 547 Bowers, W. P., 76,84 Bowersock, G. W., 232, 247, 463, 471 Brandenburg, H., 290, 305 Brandl, M., 79, 84 Braun, W., 209, 213, 222, 224, 230 Brehier, E., 513, 523 Bremmer, J. N., 214-15,224,229 Brenner, A., 339 Briggs, C A., 416, 418 Broadhurst, L., 31
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Brock, S. P., 216, 225 Bromley, D. G., 421 Brooke, G. J., 114, 132 Brooten, B. J., 10 Broshi, M., 415, 418 Broughton, T. R. S., 81, 84 Brown, F., 416, 418 Brown, P., 212,217,225,244-45,247, 403, 410, 418, 510-11, 514, 523, 544-46 Brownlee, W. H., 416, 418 Bruce, F. F., 91-93, 95-96, 106 Brunt, P. A., 234-38, 247, 407, 419 Buchler, A., 49, 58, 389, 399 Buckley, J. J., 210, 225 Buckminster, H., 74,84 Bull, R. )., 392, 399 Burchner, H., 78-79,84 Burkert, W., 16,28 Burrus, V., 212-14, 212, 225, 244, 247 Butler, H. C, 341, 346, 352 Butler, J., 220, 225 Cadbury, H. J., 86, 108 Calder, W. M., 75,76,84 Calvino, 1., 169, 173 Cameron, A., 540, 545-46 Cameron, R., 140, 144, 155 Camery-Hoggatt, J., 183, 190 Cancik, H., 399 Capper, B. J., 94-98, 102-103, 106 Caracen, F., 462, 471 Carl, P., 312, 319 Carlston, C. E., 113, 132 Caspari, F., 347, 352 Cassel, L., 81-82,84 Cassidy, R. J., 93, 106 Castelli, E. A., 209-10, 212, 215, 225 Chadwick, H., 13, 545-46 Chadwick, 0.,216,225 Charles, R. H., 253, 269
MODERN AUTHORS INDEX
Charlesworth,J. H., 253, 269, 415-16, 419 Charlesworth, M. P., 81, 85 Chilton, B., 52, 58, 114, 132 Ching, F. D. R., 290, 305 Ciraolo, L. J., 518, 521, 523 Clifford, R J., 315, 319 Cloke, G., 211-12, 225 Coakley, S., 224, 230 Coarelli, F., 551-56, 558, 561-66 Coggins, R., 393, 399 Cohen, S. J. D., 43, 166, 173, 175,35758,368,373-74,383-84,386,393, 399, 457-61, 463, 468-71, 475, 483-85,489,493-95,497,499 Coli art, P., 100-101, 106 Collins, J. J., 49, 58, 108 Comaroff, J., 212, 220, 225 Comaroff, J. L., 212, 220, 225 Connerton, P., 212, 220, 226 Cook, E., 253, 270 Cook, J. M., 78-79 Conder, C. R., 341, 345, 347, 352 Cornfeld, G., 467, 471 Cornwall, M., 421 Countryman, L. W., 66, 72 Coward, H., 547 Cowley, A., 297, 305 Cox Miller, P., 214, 219, 226 Coyle, K., 538, 546 Cramer, J. A., 78, 85 Craven, T., 330, 339 Crenshaw, J. L., 61 Croke, B., 540-42,547 Cross, F. M., 60, 154, 176-78, 188, 209,217,392,399,451,453 Crossan, J. D., 113, 132, 136, 139-41, 144-45, 155, 170, 173, 202, 204 Crowfoot, J. W., 309, 311, 319 Crown, A. c., 401 Csikszentmihalyi, M., 528-29, 547 Cullmann, 0., 133, 249, 269
573 Culpepper, R A., 185, 190 Cumonr, F., 198,204,513-14,523 Cuntz, 0., 563, 566 Curbera, J. B., 366, 368 D'Angelo, M. R, 83, 85 Danker, F. W., 66-67, 69, 72, 103, 106 Dassmann, E., 306 Daube, D., 13,232,247 Davies,]. G., 291, 305 Davies, P. R., 29,415,419 Davies, S. L., 141, 144-45, 155,215, 222,226 Davies, W. D., 53, 58, 160, 173,401 Dawson, L. L., 403-406, 414, 416, 419 De Ligt, L, 81, 85 De Moor, J. c., 114, 132 De Saulcy, F., 346-47, 352 De Ste. Croix, G. E. M., 151-52, 157 De Vaate, A.]. B., 355, 362, 371 De Vaux, R., 423 De Vogue, M., 341, 346, 352 Deichmann, F. W., 299, 305, 308, 319 Deissmann, G. A., 74, 85,201, 204 Delcourt, M., 216, 226 Deming, W., 233, 247 Denzer, J. M., 345, 352 Deroux, c., 229 Derrett, J. D. M., 94, 106, 119-20, 124,132 Desjardins, M., xii 3, 29, 156, 159, 173-75 Devda,]. B., 366, 368 Dever, W. G., 35, 42 Dibelius, M., 198,204 Dieterich, A., 512-13, 521, 523 Dinkier, E., 281-82, 285 Dinkier-von Schubert, E., 279, 285 Dodd, C. H., 113-17, 132, 139, 141, 145-46, 155 Dodds, E. R., 510, 523
574
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Donaldson, T. L., 30, 372 Donfried, K. P., 29, 41-44, 307 Doran, R., 216,226,392,400 Dostoyevsky, F., 178,190 Dothan, M., 492, 499 Douglas, M., 168,173,220,226,481, 499, 506, 520, 523 Dowden, K., 552, 566 Downey, G., 545, 547 Downing, F. G., 202, 204 Driver, S. R., 416, 418 Droge, A. J., 467, 471 Duby, G., 418 Duhaime, J., 419 Duling, D. c., 96, 107 Dundes, A., 330, 339 Dungan, D. L., 64, Dunn, J. D. G., 39, 42, 53, 55-56, 5859,92,107,192,197-99,204 Dupont, ]., 98, 107 Dyggve, E., 298·300,305
n
Easterling, P. E., 407,419 Eck, W., 462-63, 471 Edelman, L., 164, 173 Edgar, C. c., 347, 352 Ehrman, B. D., 278, 285 Eisenstadt, S. N., 403, 408, 419 Eliade, M., 190-91,315.319 Elliott, J. H., 96, 107 Elliott, N., 41-42 Ellis, E. E., 83, 85 Elm, S., 212, 216, 226 Elsner, J., 559-60, 566 Engberg-Pedersen, T., 158, 173, 227, 368,399 Epstein, J., 225 Erb, P., 545 Erler, M., 127, 133 Esler, P. F., 107-108,175 Evans, C. A, 52, 58, 114, 120-21, 132 Evans, C. F., 287
Evans, E. C., 214, 216, 219, 221, 226 Evans-Pritchard, E. E., 511, 523 Fallon, F. T., 140, 144, 155 Faraone, C. A, 547, 549 Feagin, G. M., Jr., 180, 183, 190 Feldman, L. H., 196-97, 199,204,373, 386, 399, 453, 457-60, 467-68, 471-72 Ferguson, E., 278, 286 Fevrier, P.-A, 298, 305 Fey, H. E., 548 Fiensy, D. A., 166, 173 Figueras, P., 356, 360, 362, 366, 368, 373-79,381,386 Finegan, J., 279, 282, 286 Finkelstein, L., 401 Finney, P. c., 279, 285-86, 290,305 Fisch, H., 335, 339 Fitzgerald, J. T., 74, 85, 403, 419-20 Fitzmyer, J. A., 102, 104, 107 Flesher, P. V. M., 167, 173,525 Flood, G. D., 320 Flusser, D., 450, 453 Foerster, G., 489-91, 499 Forkman, G., 92-93, 95, 107 Fornberg, T., 174 Forster, R., 214, 219, 221, 226 Fortna, R. T., 61 Foucart, P. F., 100-101, 107 Fowden, G., 517, 523 Fox, W. S., 107 Fraisse, J.-c., 407, 419 Frakes, M., 548 FranCiS, F. 0., 198, 204-205 Frank, R. I., 234-35, 238, 247 Frankfurter, D., 507, 524 Fredriksen, P., 49, 59 Freedman, D. N., 42, 278, 286 Frei, P., 77, 85 French, D. H., 75-77, 85 Frend, W. H. c., 35, 42
MODERN AUTHORS INDEX
Frerichs, E. S., 43, 58, 60, 72, 173, 421,454,525,549 Frey, J. B., 360-62, 365, 373, 375,379, 386,493,499 Freyne, S., 170, 174,389,397,400 Friedrich, G., 190-91 Frier, B. W., 231, 247 Frye, N., 14-15,23 Funk, R. W., 136-37,141,144,155 Gager, J., 507, 524,534,547 Gamber, K., 305 Gamble, H. Y., 272-76, 286, 539, 547 Garcia Martinez, F. G., 419,423,450,453 Gardner, R. B., 29 Garnsey, P., 96-97. 107 Garrison, R., 63,65, 72 Gasque, W. W., 285 Gaster, T. H., 416, 419 Gaston, L., 35, 37, 42, 53-55, 59 Gaventa, B. R., 61 Geffcken, J., 539, 547 Gellner, E., 408. 419 Gelzer, H., 563, 566 Gempf, C, 85, 88 Giedion, S., 290, 305 Gill, D. W. ].,85,88 Gingrich, F. W., 155 Glad, C E., 412, 419 Gleason, M. W .• 209, 212, 214, 216, 218-19, 221, 226 Glock, C. Y., 405, 420 Golb, N., 35,42, 108 Gooch, P. D., 22, 27, 63-64, 73 Gooch, P. W., 26. 176 Goodblatt, D., 10,394,400,483-88,499 Goodenough, E. R., 54,59,239, 247, 360,368,490,500 Goodman, M., 355, 368, 370, 373, 384,386,388,451,453,473,485, 487-88,500 Gordon, R. L., 554, 566
575 Gottwald, N. K., 295-96, 305 Gould, J., 213, 226 Grabar, A., 308, 319 Graf, F., 508, 520-21, 524, 534, 536, 547 Granfield, P., 320 Gransden, K. W., 528, 547 Granskou, D., 27, 59 Grant, Mary, 216, 226 Grant, Michael, 74, 85 Gray, R., 446, 453 Green, A. H., 458, 472 Green, W. S., 175,454 Greenhut, Z., 373, 377, 386 Griffiths, J. G., 516, 524 Grimes, R. D., 528, 545, 547 Grottanelli, C, 179, 190 Guijarro, S., 166, 174 Gutbrod, W., 180, 190 Gutmann, J., 500 Haase, W., 42, 85,106,248,369-70,500 Habinek, T. N., 443, 453 Haenchen, E., 76, 85, 91-93, 95, 107, 532,547 Hagedorn, D., 127, 133 Halberstam, J., 222, 226 Hall, J. F., 457, 472 Halligan, ]., 29 Halperin, D. M., 225-27 Hamilton, R. W., 309·10, 319 Hammond, P. E., 421 Hannam, K., 161-65, 175 Hannestad, L., 22 7, 368, 399 Hanson, A. E., 217, 227 Hanson, K. C, 161, 163, 170, 174 Harries, ].,540-42,544,547 Harries, K, 312, 319 Harris, M. J., 266, 269 Harrison, S. J., 555, 567 Harvey, 0.,160·61,163,170,174 Harvey,]. H., 309, 320 Harvey, S. A., 216, 225
576 Harvey, W., 309-10, 313, 315, 319-20 Hata, G., 399, 472 Hauerwas, S., 472 Havelaar, H.. 92,95, 107 Hawthorne, G. F., 28, 73 Hays, R B., 54, 56, 59 Heaton, T. B., 421 Hebert, A G., 54, 59 Hecht, R. D.) 430,454 Hegedus, T., 545 Helgeland, j., 539, 547 Helleman, W. E., 227 Hellholm, D., 174 Herner, C. J., 76, 79,82,85 Hengel, M., 121-25, 132, 197, 200, 205,392,400,443,454,465,472 Hennecke, E., 210, 212, 227 Henrichs, A, 511-12, 518, 525, 549 Henry, C. F. H., 26 Herzog, W. R., II, 171, 174 Hester, J. D., 118, 132 Hezser, c., 484, 495,500 Hilgenfeld, H., 563, 566 Hilhorst, A, 419 Hillel, G., 386 Hills, j. V., 29, 42-43, 307 Hirschfeld, 0., 77-79, 86 Hirschfeld, Y., 166, 174 Hock, R F., 77, 83, 86 Hoffmann, A, 77, 86, 88 Holgate, A., 290, 293-94, 305 Holladay, C. P., 506, 524 Hooker, M. D., 54, 59,83,86 Hoover, R. W., 137, 141, 144, 155 Hopkins, K., 234, 237, 247, 307, 537, 540,548 Horbury, W., 359-60, 369 Horsley, G. H. R., 272-73, 286, 362, 364,366,369
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Horsley, R. A, 58, 72, 149, 155, 167, 174, 202, 205, 389-90, 393, 395, 400,443,454,549 Houby-Nielsen, S., 220, 227 Hubaut, M., 113, 133 Hubner, R, 127, 133 Huebner, c., 472 Huebner, H., 472 Humbert, M., 231, 247 Hurd, J. c., 5, 27-28, 73 Hurtado, L. W., 271, 276-79, 286,539 Huskinson, J. M., 566 Hutcheon, L., 176, 190 Hutter, H., 407, 420 Han, T., 375, 377-79, 386 Irby, C. L., 341, 352 Irwin, E. M., 210, 227 Isaac, E., 253, 263
Jackson, F. J. F., 108 James, W.) 430, 450, 454 Jeremias, J., 64, 72, 94, 108, 113-14, 117-19,133 Jervell, J., 526 Jervis, 1. A., 28-29, 41-42, 45,59, 73 Jewett, R., 29, 47, 59, 69-70, 72, 7475,79,83,86 Johnson, A, 523 Johnson,L.T., 75-76,86,93,95,98, lOS Johnston, S. I., 517, 524 Jones, A H. M., 77-79,86,496,500 Jones, c. M., 463, 472 Jones, H. S., 387 Jonkers, E. J., 234, 248 Jossa, G., 397, 400 Judge, E. A, 68, 70, 72 Julicher, A, 113-15, 118, 123, 133, 135, 155 Jungmann, J. A, 320
MODERN AUTHORS INDEX
Kalms, J., 454 Kant, L. H., 355, 358, 360, 362, 36566,369,491,493,500 Kasemann, E., 20 Kasser, R., 279, 287 Kearsley, R. A., 286 Kee, H. C., 201, 205, 506, 524 Keesing, R. M., 410, 420 Kenison, K., 546, 548 Kiefer, K., 285 Kiilerich, B., 214, 227 King, K. L, 210, 225, 227-28, 230 Kippenherg, H. G., 523-25 Kirschbaum, E., 281, 286 Kirsten, E., 78, 86 Kittel, G., 190-91,506 Kitzinger, E., 313, 320 Klassen, W., xii, 456, 458, 472 Klauser, T., 294, 298-99, 306 Klein, S., 389, 400 Klinghardt, M., 92, 95, 98, 108 Kloner, A, 489, 500 Kloppenborg (Verbin), J. S., 29, 43, 97,99,108-109,111,137,155-56, 306, 566
Kluckhohn, C, 514, 524 Knibb, M. A, 416, 420 Koenig, ].,83,86 Konstan, D., 403,409-11,413,420 Kraabel, AT., 35, 42, 194-98, 205, 357-58,369,391,400,491,500 Kraeling, C. H., 490, 500 Kraemer, R. S., 355, 357, 360, 364-66, 369,373,387 Kramer, B., 112, 127-28, 133 Krautheimer, R., 298, 300, 306, 308, 310,312,315,320 Krien, G., 214, 227 Kuhnel, G., 308-309, 320 Kiimmel, W. G., 113, 123, 133
577 Labuschagne, C J., 419 Ladouceur, D. J., 458, 460, 472 Laeuchli, S., 563, 567 Lake, K., 76,86, 94,108 Lambdin, T. 0.,141-42,155 Lamouille, A, 93, 106 Lampe, G. W. H., 287 Lampe, P., 36, 40, 42, 193, 205 Lanza, D., 229 Lapp,P. W.,341,345-46,352 Laqueur, T. W., 217-18, 227 Larche, F., 341-42,345,348-49,352-53 Latte, K., 539, 542-43, 545, 548 Lauter, H., 347, 352 Le Bohec, Y., 366, 369 Leach, E. R., 506, 524 Leaf, W., 78, 87 Lee, R., 420 Lees, C. A., 228 Lefebvre, H., 160-61, 163-64, 174 Legasse, S., 74-75, 87 Lehmann, K., 316, 320 Lenski, G. E., 52, 484 Leon, H. J., 36, 38, 40, 42,379,387 Lesses, R., 507, 524 Levine, A-J., 327-28, 331-32, 336, 339 Levine, L. I., 167, 174, 201, 205, 485-91,494-95 Levine, S. V., 406, 420 Levinskaya, I., 196-97, 199,205,358, 361-62,365,369,373,387 Lewis, C. T., 530, 548 Lewis, D. M., 359, 369 Lewis, N., 510, 524 Lichtenberger, H., 399 Liddle, H. G., 387 Lieberman, S., 273, 286 Lieu,]., 194,205 Lifshitz, B., 261, 270, 360, 362, 369, 373, 377,379,387-88,491,493,501
578
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Lightfoot, J. B., 193,205,446 Lightstone, J. N., 474, 477, 481, 483, 485,501 Lindars, B., 47, 55, 59 Lindner, H., 461, 467, 472 Lipsius, R. A, 212, 227 Uewelyn, S. R, 123-24, 128, 133, 2n, 286 Lloyd, G. E. R., 218, 227 Lock, M. M., 220, 227, 229 lofland, J., 404-405, 420 longenecker, B. W., 55, 59 longenecker, R. N., 54, 60, 249, 263, 269,493 longo, 0., 229 Lovering, E. H., 28,86, 156 Lowe, J. E., 508, 524 luck, G., 517,520, 524 lUdemann, G., 91-93, 108 LUderitz, G., 373, 383, 387 lull, D. J., 66,
n
MacDonald, D. R., 209, 214, 216,222, 227-28 MacDonald, M. Y., 538, 548 Mack, B. L., 136-37, 139, 148-49, 154, 156,170,174,202,205 Maclennan, R. S., 194-95, 197-98, 205-206 MacMullen, R., 36,43, ISO, 156,510, 514,525,537,539,548 Magen, D., 391-93, 400 Magie, D., 77-78, 87 Maier, H. 0., 37, 43 Mair, L., 506, 510, 525 Malina, B. J., 96, 104, lOS, 403,410,420 Malinowski, B., 506, 525 Mangles, J., 341, 352 Mann, C. S., 451,453 Manns, F., 400 Marguerat, D., 94, 108 Marinatos, N., 229-30 Markschies, c., 205
Markus, R. A, 539, 545, 548 Marshall, L H., 75-76, 87, 92-93,96, 106,109 Martin, D. B., 217 -18, 221, 228 Martin, R. P., 74, 87, 285 Martin, V., 279, 286-87 Manroye, F., 506, 525 Marty, M. E., 420, 528, 548 Martyn, J. L., 46, 60-61 Marx, K., 148, 156 Mason, H. J., 214, 228 Mason, S., 52, 60,251,269,423,42930,454-55,458,460,472 Matthews, B., 74, 87 Matthews, J. F., 542, 548 Matthiae, G., 313, 320 Mauss, M., 220, 228 May, J. M., 435, 454 Mazar, B., 257, 269, 379, 387 McCall, O. J., 422 McClung, W. A, 293, 306 McCready, W.O., 402 McCutcheon, R. T., 230 McGinn, S. E., 215, 228 McGuire, M. 8., 220, 228 McKenzie, R., 387 McLaughlin, E., 229 McLean, B. H., 28 McNamara, J. A, 211, 228 McNamee, K., 280, 287 McPherson, I. W., 76,87 McVey, K. E., 291, 306 Meeks, W. A, 37, 40-41, 43, 68-70, 72, 204-205, 209, 228, 243, 248, 290,.306,526 Menard, J.-E., 141-42, 156 Mendels, D., 393, 400 Mendelson, A., 61 Menoud, P. H., 133 Merkelbach, R., 562, 567 Mersich, N., 76-77, 84
MODERN AUTHORS INDEX
Metzger, B. M., 276, 287 Metzger, H., 74-75, 87 Meyer, E., 81, 87 Meyer, M. W., 141-42,156,210,228, 507,512,523-26,545,548 Meyers, E. M., 170,174-75,495-96,501 Meynell, H., 546 Michel, 0.,465,471 Milburn, R., 281, 287, 289, 306 Miles, M. R., 211, 216, 228 Milik,). T., 376, 379, 386 Millar, F., 354, 369-70, 388, 471, 473 Miller, J. I., 81, 87 Miller, N., 315, 320 Mirecki, P., 523, 526 Mitchell, J. c., 406, 418, 420 Mitchell, S., 77, 79-81,87, 198,206, 362,364,370 Moir,). S., 27 Montaner, L. V., 455 Montefiore, H., 145, 157 Moore, c., 326, 334, 339 Moore, G. F., 52,60,373,387 Moore, P. G., 282, 287 Morel, W., 460, 472 Moss, c., 285 Maule, C. F. D., 22, 190,506 Mouriki, D., 285 Moxnes, H., 69, 72, 96-98, 102-105, 109, 158, 174,214,220,228 Muggeridge, M., 74, 87 Munck, ).,93, 109 Murphy-O'Connor, )., 32, 74, 83, 87, 290,306 Naumann, R., 77,87-88 Naveh, J., 373, 383, 387, 491, 501 Neff, R., 29 Neil, W., 93, 109 Nelson, P. K., 64, 72, 550 Nemeskeri, ).,231,247
579 Netzer, E., 340, 343-44, 348, 352, 457, 459,472 Neusner, J., 43, 51, 58-60, 72, 173, 421, 454, 471, 482-83, 485, 501, 525-26,549 Newell, R., 459, 473 Neyrey, ). H., 72, 109, 165-66, 175, 403, 410, 420 Nickelsburg, G. W. E., 54, 60 Nielsen, I., 345, 347, 353 Noble, D., 222, 228 Nock, A D., 534-36, 548 North, J., 247 Novak, D., 49, 60 Nay, D., 358-£:0, 364-66, 369-70, 373, 387 Oakman, D. E., 161, 163, 170, 174 Obbink, D., 547, 549 Oikonomidcs, A. N., 285 Ollrog, W.-H., 83, 88 Opeku, F., 214, 229 Osiek, C. A, 37, 43, 67, 72, 294, 306, 379,387,403,421 Overman, J. A, 194-95, 197-98, 205-206 Ozick, C., 528, 549 O'Brien, T., 528, 548 O'Flaherty, W., 209, 228 O'Toole, R. F., 93, 109 Packer, J. E., 37, 43 Pagels, E., 47, 60 Pantel, P. S., 229 Pardee, D., 108 Parente, F., 368, 399-400, 454 Parrinder, E. G., 510, 525 Patiagean, E., 216, 229 Patterson, S. J., 141, 144-45, 150, 156 Pearson, B., 58, 60, 106 Pease, AS., 539, 549 Pelekanidis, S. M., 298, 306 Pernicka, E., 78-79, 88
580 Perowne, S., 74, 88 Perry, B. E., 152, 156 Pesch, R.. 93. 109 Peskowitz, M., 166, 175 Pesthy, M., 212, 229 Peterson. D., 106 Petropoulos, J. c. B., 215,221,229 Phillips, C. R., III, 534, 549 Pollitt, J. J., 343, 353 Pomeroy, S. B., 213, 229 Pope, M., 336, 339 Pope, R. M., 74, 76, 78,88 Porter, R.,419 Porter, S., 79, 88 Parton, G. G., 373, 385, 387 Preisendanz, K., 511-12, 518, 525, 53536,549 Price, j. T., 443,454 Pritchard, J. B., 344, 353 Pullan, W., 308-10, 320 Pummer, R., 391-93, 401 Purvis, J. D., 392, 401 QUispel, G., 145, 156 Rackham, R. B., 96, 109 Radcliffe-Brown, A. R., 406, 421 Raditsa, L. F., 234, 238,248 Raina, G., 214, 229 Rainer, M., 563-64, 567 Rajak, T., 49, 60, 364, 370,410,421, 423,429, 431,45t 459.473 Ramsay, W. M., 74-76,83,88,364,370 Rankin, D., 80-81, 88 Rapske, B., 74,88 Redfield, R., 167, 175 Reinhartz, A, 325 Reinhold, M., 510, 524 Reisch, M.• 82, 88 Reitzenstein, R., 513 Remus, H., 506, 525, 527-28. 530, 532, 534,537-39,549
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Renfrew, C., 296-97,306 Rengstorf, K. H., 506 Resnick, I. M., 272. 276, 287 Restle. M., 76,84,309, 320 Reynolds, J. M., 196, 206, 373, 383, 387,566 Rheidt, K., 77, 86, 88 Rhoads, D. M., 460, 473 Richardson, P., 3-29, 31-32, 35-36, 40, 43-45,55,59-60,63-64,68-70,7374, 92, 98, 109, 135, 156, 158-59, 162-63, 169, 175, 179, 184, 190, 192.200,206,223,231,284,289, 297,306-307,325,339,372,417, 456,460,473,527 Richmond, E. T., 309, 312, 318, 320 Richter, H. A, 86 Ricl, M., 82, 88 Riesner, R., 76, 88 Rist,]. M., 407, 421 Robbins, V. K., 156 Robert, L., 77, 88 Roberts, C. H., 271-74, 276, 287 Robinson,]. A. T., 118, 133 Robinson,j. M., 141,144-45,155-56, 210,229 Rochberg-Halton, E., 528-29, 547 Roetzel, C. j., 231, 239-41, 248 Rohrbaugh, R., 104, 107-108 Roloff, J., 75, 89 Roniger. L.. 403. 408. 419 Roscoe, W., 209, 229 Rostovtzeff, M. I., 125, 133, 232, 248 Rousseau, J. J., 176, 190 Rousselle, A, 218, 229 Rowlandson, J., 124, 133 Ruether, R. R., 221, 229 Ruge, E., 77-78,89 Rutgers, L. V., 35, 37, 40, 43, 361, 366,370 Rykwert, J., 312, 321
MODERN AUTHORS INDEX
Sabbatucci, D., 179, 191 Safrai, Z., 489, 499, 501 Saldarini, A. ].,52,55,60,484,501 Saller, R. P., 97, 107,407,421 Sampley,]. P., 83,89 Sanders, E. P., 47-49, 51-52, 61, 165, 170,175-76,191,201,206,415,421 Sanders,]. A, 52, 61 Sanders,]. T., 198,206 Schafer, P., 399, 523-25 Schalit, A, 428, 455 Scheper-Hughes, N., 220, 229 Schiffmann, L., 29 Schille, G., 83, 89 Schmeling, G., 566 Schmithals, W., 92-93, 109 Schnebel, M., 127, 133 Schneemelcher, W., 227 Scholer, D. M., 29 Schulz, F., 120, 133, 234, 248 Schurer, E., 362, 370, 373, 388, 463, 471,473 Schussler Fiorenza, E., 228 Schwabe, M., 261,270,377,379,388, 493,501 Schwartz, S., 395, 401 Schwemer, AM., 197,205 Schwertheim, E., 82, 89 Scott, B. B., 136, 141-45, 147-48, 156, 165, 175 Scott, J. c., 154, 157 Scott, R., 387 Scruton, R., 290, 294, 307 Scullard, H. H., 545, 550 Seccombe, D. P., 94, 109 Sedgwick, R., 530, 549 Segal, A F., 18,48,61,505-506,525 Seland, T., 467, 473 Seligman, E. R. A, 523 Serdaroglu, D., 79,89 Shanin, T., 157
581 Shanks. H., 459, 473 Shaw, G., 517, 525 Shelton, J., 530, 549 Shepherd, M. H., 308, 321 Sheppard, A R. R., 198,206,364,370 Sherwin-White, AN., 537, 549 Short, c., 530, 548 Shukster, M. B., 22, 27-28 Shurmer-Smith, P., 161-65, 175 Siegert, F., 454 Sievers, J., 368, 399-400, 445, 454-55 Silberman, N. A, 457, 473 Simon, U. E., 113, 134 Sirat, c., 273, 287 Skeat, T. c., 271-74, 287 Slater, P., 547 Slingerland, H. D., 38, 43 Smallwood, E. M., 356, 370 Smith,]. Z., 159, 165, 175, 211, 230, 506,526 Smith, M., 415, 421, 506, 508-10, 513,517,526 Smith, R, 209-10, 230, 507, 525, 545, 548 Snodgrass, K. R., 114, 123-25, 127, 134 Snyder, G. F., xii, 35, 40, 43, 281, 287, 289,307,539,550 Solin, H., 357-58, 370 Sontheimcr, W., 272, 288 Spolsky, E., 339 Spong,j.S., 464, 473 Stlihlin, G., 178, 191 Stambaugh, J. E., 70, 73 Stark, R., 48, 61, 402, 404-406, 414, 416,420-22,537,540,550 Stegemann, H., 423, 428, 455 Steinhauser, M. G., 156 Sterling, G. E., 93, 98, 109 Stern, D., 136, 138, 157 Stern, M., 469 Steussy, M. J., 335, 339 Stewart, Z., 548
582
TEXT AND ARTIFAGf
Stock, B., 544, 550 Stowers, S. K., 41, 44 Strange, J. F., 495-96, 501 Stratton, K., 509 Straub, K., 225 Streeter, B. H., 64, 73 Strobel, K., 80, 89 Stupperich, R., 79, 86, 89 Sukenik, E. L., 374-75, 379-80, 388,423 Sulzberger, M., 281, 288 Sumney, J. L., 86 Sussman, J., 492, 501 Suttles, G. D., 410, 422 Swartz, M., 508, 526 Sweet, J. P. M., 58 Swerdlow, N. M., 564, 567 Syme, R. R., 234, 248
Traube, L., 276, 288 Trebilco, P. Fl, 195-98, 206, 354-55, 357-58,362,364,367,370 Treggiari, S., 231, 236-38,248 Trobisch, D., 271-72, 276,288 Troeltsch, E., 294, 307 Tsafrir, Y., 309, 321, 489, 494-96, 501 Turcan, R., 564, 567 Turner, B. S., 220, 230 Turner, E. G., 288 Turner, H. E. W., 145, 157 Turner, v., 168, 175,295,307
Tabor, J. D., 467, 471 Talbert, C. H., 93-94, 109 :Lannenbaum,Fl,196,206,373,383,387 Tarn, W. W., 232, 248 Tatum, J., 566 Taubenschlag, Fl, 121, 134 Tavener, E., 508, 526 Tawney, R. H., 294, 307 Taylor, M. S., 388 Taylor, V., 64, 68, 73, 139, 157 :Lcherikover, V., 121, 134 Temporini, H., 85, 155, 174, 248, 369,500 Thackeray, H., 432, 439, 446, 455 Theissen, G., 37, 44, 506, 526 Thiessen Nation, M., 472 Thoma, c., 157 :Liede, D. L., 506, 526 Tomaselli, S., 419 Tomson, P. ].,49,56,61,357,370 Tonnies, F., 294-95, 307 Torrance, T. F., 54, 61 :LOV, E., 272, 288
Vaage, L E., 154, 157 Valantasis, R., 14H2, 146-47, 157, 521,526 Vallette, P., 529-30, 533-34, 550 Van den Broek, R., 525 Van der Heyden, P., 545,550 Van der Horst, P. W., 196, 206, 355, 357-58, 360, 370, 373, 375, 379, 388,493,502 Van der Loos, H., 506, 526 Van Haelst, J., 272-73, 288 Van Henten, J. W., 355,362,371 VanderKam, J. C., 29, 339, 450, 455 Vermaseren, M. J., 525, 558, 567 Vermes, G., 370, 388, 416-17, 422, 450,455,471,473 Vesely, D., 312, 321 Vidler, A., 74, 87 Villeneuve, F., 345, 352 Vincent, L. H., 309, 311-12, 321 Vogt, K., 216-17, 230 Vi:i6bus, A, 244, 248 Vorster, J. N., 215, 222, 230
Uhlhorn, G., 97, 101, 109 Updike, J., 546, 548 Urbach, E. E., 48, 61 Urman, D., 491-92, 501
583
MODERN AUTHORS INDEX
Waelkins, M., 77,89 Walaskay, P. W., 92-93, 109 Walbank, F. W., 412, 422 Wallace, D. B., 54, 61 Wallace-Hadrill, A, 97,110,403,407, 421-22 Wallis, 1. G., 54, 61 Wallis, R., 406, 422 Walters, J. C., 39, 44 Ward-Perkins, J. B., 299,307 Warne, R. R, 220, 223, 230 Waterbury, J., 419 Wax, M., 506, 526 Wax, R, 506, 526 Weber, V., 76, 90 Wedderburn, A J. M., 41, 44 Weinfeld, M., 98, 1I0 Weinstock,S., 541, 550 Weiss, Z., 467, 493, 502 Welch,J. W.,457,472 Wenham, D., 27, 73 Weren, W. J. c., 114, 134 Wessel, K., 320 West, W., 81,87 Westerholm, S., 28, 52,61 Westermann, W. L., 125, 134 White, L M., 36, 40, 44,289-90,293-94, 300,307,406-407,421-22,563,567 Wiebe, D., 16,29,547 Wiegand, T., 78, 90 Wiegantz, H., 82, 89 Wild, R A, 52, 62 Wiles, M., 13 Wiles, V., 29
Will, E., 341-42, 349, 353 Williams, C. S. c., 93, 110 Williams, M. H., 357-59, 365-66, 371, 394,401 Williams, S. K., 54, 62 Willis, J. T., 61 Wills, L., 325-26, 330, 339 Wilson, S. G., xi, 28-29, 43, 108-109, 195,206,306,354,566 Wimnush, V. L., 225, 230, 233, 248 Wilken, R. L., 530, 550 Winkler, J. J., 225, 554, 562,567 Wise, M. 0.,108,253,270 Wisse, F., 210, 230 Wissova, G. 84, 86, 89, 453 Witherington, B., III, 46, 62, 76, 79, 90,92-95, 110 Wolf, E. R., 408, 422 Wright, B., 549 Wuellner, W., 39, 44, 331, 339 Wyschogrod, M., 157 Yadin, Y., 457-60, 463-64, 472-73 Yarbrough, O. L., 217, 230 Yee, G. A, 113, 134 Young, L., 421 Zahle, J., 227, 368, 399 Zeitlin, F. 1., 225 Zeitlin, I. M., 55, 62 Zevi, B., 290, 294, 307 Zias, J., 459, 473 Ziegler, K., 272, 288 Zizek, S., 220, 223-24, 230
ANCIENT SOURCES INDEX
HEBREW BIBLE
Judges 13:5-7 16:17
238 238
1 Samuel 8:4-18 10:17-27 13: 13- 15 17:53
296 296 296 375
2 Samuel 6-7
296
1 Kings 8:5-9 12:25-33
297 297
Genesis 1:28 8:16 9:1,7 13:18 14:14 15:6 28:22 31:19 31:36 35:11 38:6- 11
238 238 238 295 280 238 295 295 375 238 238
Exodus 2:23-25 12:43-48 13:13 17:8-13 20:4 20:16 34:20
336 48 477 280 260 92 477
Leviticus 6:2 19:11 19:23-25
92 92 119
Numbers 25
Jeremiah 2: 1-2 7:11 14:17
331 443 331
465
Ezekiel 13:1-10 37:7-14
92 200
Obadiah 1:18
375
Psalms 7:13
375
Deuteronomy 11:29-30 391 13:6-11 465.468 391 27: 11-26 Joshua 7:1
93
Isaiah 5:1-7 8:23 28:17 37:22 40:19-20 44:13-20 54:4-8 60:21
112-19,130,139 389 92
331 543 543 331 267
585
ANCIENT SOURCES INDEX
26:6 118:22
185 113-15. 143-45
Proverbs 26:23 31:26
375 416
Ruth 4:2
465
Song of Songs 4:4 5:1 6:2 7:4-5
331 335 335 331
Lamentations
2:2-13
332 332
Esther 11:10
336
I: I
Daniel 12:2-3
250
Daniel/Susanna 333-35 1-6 333-36 6-23 28-59 333-36 INTRA- AND POST-BffiUCAL JEWISH SOURCES Apocalypse of Moses (The Life of Adam and Eve) 252 32:4 2 Baruch 14:12-13 30:1-5 36: 11 49: 1-3 50:1-51:16
254 254 254 254 254-55
1 Enoch 6-36 10:16-22
252 252
22:9-11 22:13 25:4-6 51: 1-5 61:5 62:14-16 89:10-68 90:2-38 91-93 92:3-4 94-104 100:5 103:3-4 104: 1-4
252 252 252 253 253 253 252 252 250 250 250 250 250 250
2 Enoch 22:8-10 42:3-5 65:7-8
252 252 252
4 Ezra 3:1-9:25 5:24-26 7:32-38 7:75-101
253 337 254-55 253
Jubilees 23:30-31
250
Judith 1:1-15 2:4 4:1 4: 1-3 4:6-15 4: 11-15 5: 17 7:3-10 7:19-28 7:20 7:29-31 8:2 8:3-4 8:5-8
326 326 331 327 327.336 336 327 329 327 332 337 328 331-32 328-29
586
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Judith (continued)
Philo
8:9.36 8:21-24 9: 1-14 10:2-3 10: 10-21 11:23 12:1-12 16:4·6 16:18-20 16:21-23
Change of Names 61 355
328 332-33 328 328-29 329-30 330 329 332 333 328.330-31
1 Maccabees
1:43·53 2:15 9:10 10:29-30
355 355 437 395
2 Maccabees
2:21 6: 1-11 7: 1-41 8:1 9:16-19 12:43-45 14:J7-46 14:38
394 392·93 251.253-54 394 393 251. 253 251,253.465 394
3 Maccabees
]:3 2:31-33 3:23 7:10·15
355·56 355-56 355-56 355-56
4 Maccabees
9:8 9:32 10:11-15 12: 19 13:15 17:4-18 18:5-23
251 251 251 252 252 251 251-52
C07Ifusi07l of Tongues 2.2 355 Contemplative Life 88-89 239-40 Embassy 155-57
to
Gaius 36,38
Every Good Man is Free 75-91 427 Flight 36-38
240
Moses 1.28 1.305 2.68·69 2.170-273
239 434 239 467
On AlYraham
136 248-49
239 239
Posterity and Exile of Cain 355 35-40 Questions and Answers 2.49 240 4.68 239 Rewards and Punishments 108-109 239 Special Laws 1.52-53 1.314-18 3.13-29 31-35
372 355 239 239
Virtues 103
372
587
ANCIENT SOURCES INDEX
182 207
355 239
Worse Attacks the Better
171
239
Josephus
Against Apion
1.6 1.225 1.306 2.123 2.145-295 2.145 2.146 2.148 2.151 2.156 2.161 2.170-71 2.171-73 2.188-89 2.192 2.195 2.196 2.199-201 2.202 2.208 2.209-10 2.219 2.223 2.232-34 2.271-72 2.272 2.276-77 2.279 2.281 2.282 2.291 2.293 2.294 2.296
442 433 438 197 432 434 436 440 436 443 443 441 433 438 433 438 436 435 435,447 436 442 440 433 439 440 433 444 442 436 49 436,440 438 440 442
Antiquities
1.6 1.15-18 1.26 1.61 1.72 1.82 1.139 1.282-83 2.43-53 2.198 2.265 2.347 3.81 3.91 3.92 3.100 3.105 3.115 3.184 3.263 3.280-86 3.317-20 4:14-20 4.72 4.114 4.173 4.219 4.223 4.295 4.302-304 4.305 4.326 4.328-29 5.15 5.43 5.55 5.135 5.254 6.36
442-43 443 446 443 434 446 446 437 434 436 436 446 446 440 442 437 446 437 437 438 442 197,444 430 434 437 426 435 429 442 442 437 446 434,444 429 429 429 429 426 429
588 Antiquities (continued) 6.63 435 6.71-73 426 6.76 437 6.216 437 6.347 435 6.360 438 6.377 438 7.l59 438 7.230-32 426 7.272 426 7.274 438 7.338 441 7.341 441 7.356 441 7.374 441 7.384 441 7.387 426 8.44-49 437,446-47 8.252 434 8.280 441 8.318 435 9.3 436 9.16 441 9.28 446 9.225 437 9.236 441 429 11.111 11.173 394 11.306-12 391 396 11.344 12.10 392 12,43 441 12.56 441 12.138-53 391, 429 12.142 429 12.156-222 340 12.160 433 12.224 433 12.229-33 340 12.240 355
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
12.364 12.384-85 12.424 13,49-54 13.74 13.171-73 13.171 13.288 13.293 13.298 13.299-300 13.311 13.384-85 13.393 13.401 13,430-31 14.161 14.190-98 14,429-30 14.309 15 15.98 15.135 15.219 15.371-78 15.371 16.99 16.108 17.41 17,42 17.101 17.155-64 17.246 17.254-58 17.276 17.288-89 17.324 17.346 17.351-53 18 18.11-25
355 355 438 395 392 50,424,427 436 436 436 415,424,426-27 446 424,427,445 426 428 441 435 441 396 466 438 428 435 441 434 425,427-28,445 427 438 438 434,441 415 434 184 434 396-97 426 202 434 425,445 435 426 50
589
ANCIENT SOURCES INDEX
18.14 18.18-22 18.19 18.20 18.21 18.22 18.38 18.46 18.96-98 18.117 18.313-18 18.325 18.334 18.339-40 18.348 18.355 20.43 20.95 20.100 20.118 Life 10 10-12 11 28 30-31 71 79-86 80 97-100 105 112-13 118-19 191-92 195-98 221 258 262-65 304-308 346 377-80
250, 434 425,428 438 415 448 438 396 438 426 441 426 426 426 426 426 426 396 381 255 390 426 425,436 438 443 442 117 442,444 441-42 442 443 442 256,397 443-44 397 396 433 442 442 396 442
417-21 430
442 435,441
War
1.2-4 1.6 1.10 1.12 1.16 1.22 1.26 1.30 1.31-2.110 1.63 1.78-80 1.78 1.85 1.89 1.100-11 1.104 1.IlO
1.206 1.312-13 1.439 1.654-55 2.12 2.59 2.68 2.101 2.111-16 2.113-19 2.113 2.118-19 2.119-66 2.120-21 2.162-63 2.178 2.214-17 2.228-29 2.232-35 2.232 2.253-54
438,442,461 462 443 462 461 462 446,461 442,461 431 391 432 424,437,445 433 426 434 428 444 441 466 435 184 439 426 202 434 432,438 428 425, 445 2.118 432,436 50, 423-52 240 250,444,448 444 444 443 443 390,396-97 44.3
590 War (continued) 2.275 443 2.425 443 2.431,34 443 2.441 443 2.462,63 197 2.466 76,467 2.510 396 2.520 426 2.566 426 2.567 425, 428 2.571,72 444 2.586,87 434,443 2.593 443 425,26,428 3.11 3.19 425 3.35-58 395 3.183 438 3.352 446 3.362-82 250 3.372-74 445 3.377 437 3.390 467 ).405 446 3.493 438 4.79-81 466 4.105 396 4.317 437 4.325 434 4.373 435 4.382-83 437 4.387 434 4.465 438 436 4.478 4.387 434 4.492 441 5.20 439,461 5.145 425-26,436 5.174 436 5.194 446 6.148 396
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
6.217 6.256 6.280 6.311 7.43,47 7.50,51 7.261 7.264 7.278 7.329 7.343,50 7.359 7.375 7.378,79 7.454-55
437 438 466 446 197,358,434 355 443 446 438 434 445 434 434 469 462
Qumran
lQH 1.20,21 2.20 5.29,39 6.29-35 11.10-14
250 250 250 250 250
lQS 1.8 2.24 5.4 5.7-13 5.25 6.1-7.8 8.2 10.26
416 416 416 416 416 95 416 417
4Q500
114
4Q52 1
253
4Q560
199
4QFlor 1.4
373
CD 14.4-6
373
591
ANCIENT SOURCES INDEX
Rabbinic Sources m. Baba Batra 3.1-3 118-19
h. Ketuhot 72 103
m. Baha Me~i'a 119 4.8 383 4.10
b. Ros Hassana 256 30a-h
m. Bekorot 1.2-1.4a
477-81
m. Bikkurim 1.4
372
m. 'Erubin 6.1
48
258 256,258
b. Sanhedrin 32b
256
b. Yebamot 47b-48b 62a 63b
372 372 246
y. Ijagiga 2.1.77b
356
m. Ijalla 4.11
377-78
m. Horayot 3.8
Targum of Isaiah 5.1-7 114
373
m. Ketubot 4.3
Genesis Rabbah 256 97
375
m. 'Orla
119
Sibylline Oracles 4.175-91 255
m. Peah 7.6 8.7
119 94
m. Pesahim
8.8
48
m. QuUlduJin 4.1
373
m. Sanhedrin
10.1
b. Baba Batra 53a-55a
Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs 252,393 Wisdom of Solomon 251 2:22-24 3: 1-4 251 7:16 251 7:27 148 8:2 337 14:1-14 543
267 NEW TESTAMENT 118
h. Bekorot 47a
372
b. GiHin 39a
118
b. Ijagiga 14b-15b
356
Matthew 2: 1 5:5 5:20 5:47 6:7 9:10-11 11:19
17 118 52 56 56 55 55
592
TEXT AND ARTIFACf
Matthew (continued) 13:53-58 168 18: 17 56 18:23-34 142 20: I-IS 171 21:31-32 55 21:43 115 31,52 22: 1-14 23:11 69 25:9 181 69 25:44 27:14-18 180 27:23-24 181-82 27:27 177 27:29-31 178 27;41 178 Mark 1-4 I: 16-20 3:1-6 7:2-8 8:31 9:10 9: 12 9:31 9:35 10:29-31 10:34 10:41-45 11:15 11:17 11:27 12: 1-9 12:1-12 12:10 12: 12 12: 18-27 14:7 14:21-24 15:5 15:9
293 167 168 395 179 264 178-79 179 69 167 179 103 293 293 113 135-54 Ill-31 143-44 140 263 66 115 180 182-83
15:10 15:12 15:14 15:15 IS: 16 15:20 15:31 15:40-41
180 183 182 181, 184 177 178 178 69
Luke 1-2 1:3 1:5 6:24 6:3.3-36 7:1-10 8:1-3 9:52-56 10;30-35 10:38-42 10:36 12:8-12 12:33-34 14:7-24 14: 15-24 16: 1-9 16:19-31 16:20 18:2-5 18:22 19: 1-10 19:8 19:39-44 20: 10-12 22:3 22:24-27 22:28-30 22:61 23:11 23:20-22 23:25 23:36
64 102 17 65 65-68 103 69, 102 390 137 69-70 116 92 104 171 52 137, 152, 171 171 116 152 104 103 104 376 117 93 64-65,67-68,70,103 103 178 178-79 181-82 181 178
593
ANCIENT SOURCES INDEX
John 4:4 4:20 19:8 19:12 20: 19-23 Acts 1: 1 2-5 2 2:11 2:41-47 2:44 4 4:9 4:32-37 4:32 5:1-11 9:27 9:36 10: 1-8 10:31 10:38 10:44-48 11:22-26 11:27 -30 11:29 12:12 12:25 13-14 13:1 15:5 16:6-8 16:10 16:11-15 16:40 17:7 17:25 18:2 19:9 20:6-8
390 391 181 158, 181 292 102 104 96 395 91 98,103 96 66, 103 91
98, 103 91-105 95 70 103 103 66,103 103 95 65,91 69 103 69 75-76 95 51 75-76 79 70 103 189 532 43 293 103
20:8 20:9 21:40 22:1 23:6-10 23:26 24:3 26:25 28:22 Romans 1:1-15 3:22 3:26 8:19-25 8:23 8:28 11:1 13:11-12
14 14:1-15:6 15: 14-16: 16 15:20 15:25-27 15:31 16: 1-2 16:3 16:5 16:7 16:10-15 16:21-24
293 37 181 181 264 102 102 102 38 39 54 54 264 266 83 40 264 47 39 39 40 65,91 69 63, 70 39 39,293 39, 193 39 39
1 Corinthians 3:16 243 6, 16-17 5-7 6:1-11 6,16,17 6:19 244,293 10, 244, 293 7 7:3-5 241 7:5 243 7:7 241 7: 10-11 241 7:28 246
594
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
1 Corinthians (continued)
Philippians
7:29 7:31 7:38 8-10 9:12-18 9:13-14 9:19-23 11: 17-34 12:27-28 15:3·5 15: 12-58 15:12·19 15:43-54 15:50 16:19
1:6 1:21·26 3:9 3:10·11 3:20-21 4:5
241, 243 241 243 17 16-17 64 13 47 25 265,268 264-65 267·68 266 52, 265 293
2 Corinthians
4:14-5:10 5:24 8-9 8:4 8: 19-20 9:1 9:12-13 11:23·27
264 266 65,91 69 69 69 69 74
Galatians
1:2 1:21 2:7 2:11-14 2:11-21
3:22 3:26-28 3;28 4: 13-14 5:24 6:10 6:12
76 83 46,56 13 45·57 54 6, 10 4-5,209,241 76 56 66 46
Ephesians
4:32-5: 1 6:21-22
67 69
67 264 54 264 264·65 264
Colossians
1:12 2:11-13 2:18 3:12 4:7 4:15
199 199 198-99 199 69 293
1 Thessalonians
4: 11-12 4: 13-5: 11 5:12
77 264 70
2 Thessalonians
2: 1-12 3:7-12
264 77
1 Timothy
2:11 2:15 3:8 6:2 6: 15-16 6:17-19
241 242 67 69 266 65·66
2 Timothy
4:13
272
Hebrews
6:10 13:16
69 66
James
5: 1·6
65
2 Peter
3: 15-16
275
3 John
7
56
595
ANCIENT SOURCES INDEX
Apollinaris Sidonius
Revelation
17:14 19: 16
189 189
NON·CANONICAL CHRISTIAN SOURCES Acts of Paul and Thecla
5-6 7-9 20-21 25 26 27-36 33
34 37 40 41 42-43
212 212-14 243 215 213-14,243 214 214 213,243 214 213,215 213,243 215
Acts of Thomas 12 244
170
539
Ambrose
Letters 2.10.5
534
Armenian Description of the Holy Places
1
312
Augustine City of God 5.12-13
21
544 544 544
Confessions 5.13.23 6.2 8 10.42-67
544 298,300 544 544
8-10
On Christian Doctrine
2.20.30
545
Letters
16-17 138.19-20
542 534,540
Barnabas
Letters 17 17.1-2 17.9 17.12 17.13-14
540, 542 542 540,543 541 542
17.16
543
18 18.1-4 18.7-9 18.12 \8.30 1831
542 543 543 544 542, 544 540,543
Ambrosiaster Commentary on Romans Prologue 38
9:8 12: 1-7 21:2
280 280 67
1 Clement
1:2 2: 1-2, 7 8:4 19-23 30:7 33-34 36:1 38:2-3 47-48 59:3 61:3 64
68 68 67
67-68 67 67-68 70 67 68
67 70 70
596 2 Clement 12: 1-6
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Ephrem 209
Clement of Alexandria
Miscellanies 3.3.71-75 3.6.45.3 3.9.63.1-2 6.[2.100 8.1.275
RichMan 11 14 26-27 32
242 210 210 211 211 65 67-68 65-66 66
Teacher 2.83-86 3.3
242 27
Council of Gangra Canons 13 217 217 17 Cyril of Jerusalem
Catechetical Lectures 14.23 14.30
314 314
Didache 15: 1
67
Letter to Diognetus 67 8:11 10:4,6 67
Gospel of the Egyptians 210
Travels 311-12 311 311 311 311
314 314
Epiphanius
Weights and Measures 30
314
Eucherius 127.11
316
Eusebius
Demonstration of the Gospel 3.2.97 313 4.16.188 316 6.8.288d-289a 314 6.13.274d-275a 314 7.2.343b 313 7.2.349a 314
History of the Church 4.22.27 6.19
47 545
In Praise of Constantine 9.17 314 Life of Constantine 3.41,43 314 Shepherd of Hennas Visions 3.9.5
66
Mandates 2.4-6 8.10,12
Similitudes 1.8-11
Egeria 24-25 33.2 35.2 37.2 43.1
Hymns on the Nativity 4.14 4.85
2.7.10 9.20.1-4 9.26.2 9.30.4-5
67 67 67 67 67 67 67
597
ANCIENT SOURCES INDEX
Gospel of Peter
Ignatius
Ephesians 2:1
69 69
5:2
69 67
8:2 9:2 12:2
69
Origen
Smymaeans
12: 1
69
Protevangelium of James
17-18 19
313 315
Jerome
Letters
22 46.11 58.3 108.10 147.4
217 314-16 314 314,317 310
Homilies
17 23
64
314 314 314
314
10.19
47
Letter to Africanus
488
7.6.15-16
38
Lausiac History
38
Intra. 5
211
Prudentius
210
Melito of Sardis
Peri Pascha
Commentary on the Gospel of John
Palladius
Marcion
Gospel of Mary
538 538 538 313 538 538 538 538 533 557 538
History Against the Pagans
First Apology
Romans Prologue
1.1-7 1.24 1.28 1.51 2.55 3.19-22 3.43 3.55 5.41 6.22 7-8
Orosius
Justin Martyr
35.4-6
537-38 538 538
Against Celsus
Trallians
3:1
67,69
Martyrdom of Polycarp
Philadelphians
4:1 11: 1
Polycarp
Philippians
Magnesians
2:1
274
194-95
Against Symmachus
1.632-34 2.19
540 540
598
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Pseudo-Athanasius
Life of Syndetica
215
Pseudo-Dionysius
67·68 73·74 76
77
145 145 142 144 142 142 142-43, 147, 152-53 142 142 210
Celestial Hierarchy 316 301-304
78 96-97 98
Socrates
107
Church History 1.17 314
109 114
Sophronius
Gospel of Truth
Anacreontic Odes 316 19.45
20 27
Sozomen
Zostrianus
Ecclesiastical History 2.2 314 5.3.1-2 540 Synesius
Dio 3.2
427
On the Apparel of Women 1.2 211
Theodosian Code
542 217 542
Gospel of Thomas
1 8-9
22 30 34-35 47 59 60 63-64 65 66
210 210
GRECO.ROMAN SOURCES Ammianus Marcellinus
Tertullian
9.16.4 12.2.17 16.10. ]-17
130.24 131.5-9
279 279
145 142 210 144 142 142 145 142, 145 142-43, 145-46, 150 118, 131, 135-54 143-45
History 9.16.4 16.10.1-17
542 542
Apuleius Apology 6-41 9.2 13·16 18.8-12 19.2 21.6 22.9-10 23.1-7 24.9 25-26 25.3 25.9-10 27.1 27.10 30-31 32.3-4
535 535 534 533 536 532 532 536 536 514-15 536 535 531 532 535 532,535
599
ANCIENT SOURCES INDEX
35.7 36.5 38.1 38.7-8 39.1 40.4 41.3 41.5 42 42.3-8 43.2-6 47.3-4 48-51 48.3-8 51.1 54.7 55.8-11 56 56.1-2 56.7 56.9 58 59 61-65 61.1-2 61.5 61.6-7 63.3 63.4 63.6 63.7-8 64.1-2 64.4 64.7 65 66-94 66.2 67.3-4 68.2-5 69.4 70.3
536 536 536 535 532 535 532 535 535 532,535 532 535 535 536 536 532 533 530 533 536 533 535 529 535 535 535-36 532 532 532 535-36 532 533 536 533 532 533 534 534-35 534 535 535
71-74 72.5 73.7 75.1-2 76 76.2-5 78.1-5 8Ll-2 83.1-2 83.6 84-86 84.3-4 84.6 85.1-3 85.2 87.7-8 90.1-5 91.2-4 91.8 92.6-7 96.2 96.5-6 97.1 98.1 98.6 98.8-9
102.1-2 102.5 102.7 103.5 104
529 532 534 533 533 534 534-35 535-36 535 535 533 535 535 532 536 534 535 535-36 534 533 535 532 532 533-34 533 536 535 536 535 535 533
On the God of Socrates
4-6
532
On the Philosophy of Plato
Lll
554-55
On the World
2
554-55
Florida 16
530
600 Metamorphoses 6.1-3 11 11.1-2 11.5 11.15 11.23-24 11.27-29
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Dio Chrysostom
559 516 559 533 516,559 559 533,553
To Plato: In Defense of the Four 538 404.3-6 Aristotle
Eudemian Ethics 411 Nicomachean Ethics
411
Physiognomies
216
PoUties 1277b20-23
217 20
Catullus
444
Cicero
Divination 2.2.4
444
Diogenes Laertius Euripides
Hippolytus 3.184
467
Galen
Sperm 1
218
Corpus Hermeticum
Tractate 1
518
Tractate 7
518
Odes 20
234
Satires 1.8.1
543
Homer
Iliad
410-11
Odyssey
410
On the Classification of Phetoric
Letters 36
75-80
Justinian
336 439
Digest 37.14.6.4
Dio (Cassius)
Epitome 66.6.3
221
Julian
On Laws
3.3.7
220 221
Horace
Augustus
Poems 64
Speeches 32.3 33.53.54
7.173
Aristides
Res Gestae
Fourth Oration 65 66
466
Roman History 37.17.1 357 56.7.5 234 60.6.6-7 38
545
235
Juvenal
Satires 3.268-314 14.96-106
444 49, 197
601
ANCIENT SOURCES INDEX
Libanius Autobiography
4.2653 4.2967-3006
1.vii-xii
513
31 35 39-41 61 93 127-29
513 513 513 513 513 513
511 536
Roman History Preface, 9 238 26.13-14. 19 469
Phaedrus Aesopic Fables 1.5 151 1.28-30 151-52 151 3 3.2 152 3.7 152 152 4.6 Philodemus On Frank Criticism 412
Lucan Pharsalus 6.495-96
Alcibiades 1 122a
Livy
Plato 536
535
Crito
Lucian Alexander of Abonuteichus 25 538-39 38 538
50a-53d
541
Laws 955e-956a
532
Eunuch 3
Letters D12e
533
Republic 369b 377a-378e 449a-465c 616a-617e
232 532 232 555
Symposium lOld-103a
531
Timaeus 38
555
Macrobius Saturnalia 1.24
209
545
Ocellus On the Nature of the Universe 233 45 Papyri Graecae Magicae (PGM) 511 1.127 1.131 511 4.110 511 4.243 511 512 4.475-829 511 4.2081 511 4.2289 4.2319 511
Pliny the Elder Natural History 5.15.73 423 5.73 427 17.171 127 508 18.41-43
602
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Pliny the Younger
Life of Plotinus
Letters
10
10.96-97 10.96 10.96.3-8 10.96.10
37,537 69 537 537
Panegyric
25-28 26.1-5 27.1-2 28.6-7
237 237 237 237
Proclus
Platonic Theology
1.25
Pseudo-Aristotle
Physiognomies
805a 809b 809b-810a
434 438 434 438 433 434 434 433 434
1.1.9 1.1.12 3.15.4 4.3.2 4.12.5 4.25.1 Anthology
4.527.5-7 Strabo
Physiognomies
Geography
219
Pollux
Ono11Ul.lticon
209
Polybius
Histories
36.17.5
232
Porphyry On the Cave of the Nymphs
6-7 6 9 29
316 557 316 316
67 65 67 67 66 67
Stobaeus
Polemo
6.126-27
219 214 219
On Benefits
Cato the Elder
2
517
Seneca
Plutarch
1-9 2.1 2.3 3.1-4 3.3 3.6 4.2 4.3 11.3
519-20
12.3.23 12.5.2 12.8.11-12 13.1.2 13.1.5-6 13.1.33 13.1.45 13.1.47 13.1.49 13.1.51-52 13.1.56-58 13.1.66 13.1.68
232
78
77 77 79 79 78 78 78 79 78-79 79 79 79
603
ANCIENT SOURCES INDEX
Suetonius
Augustus 89.2
235
Claudius 25.4
37-38
Domitian 12.2 Nero 16.2
356
535
37,537
540 540-41 540 541 541 541 540 543 540,542 543
History 4.36.5
233
Zosimus
Annals 15.44
37,40,537
Germania 19-20
234
Histories 5.5
234
540
INSCRIPTIONS Beth She'arim (1973)
18 23 98
379 379 379
Beth She'arim (1974)
2-7 9 13
Theophrastus
22-23 26-29. 33-36 39-44 47 52 56-61
379 379 379 379 379 379 379 379 379 379
BethShe'arim (1976)
531 531 531
Virgil
Aeneid 2.293-97 2.707-708 2.723-24
Eclogues 8.64-65,80 Xenophon
Tacitus
Characters 9.10 16.6 19.8-9
537 536 535 536 536
Ocellus 7.19
Symmachus
Relationes 3.1 3.1-3 3.4-7 3.5-6 3.9 3.13-17 3.20 10 21 21.5
2.735-94 3.12 4.513-16 7.648 8.7
536 537 537
162 193-94
261 262
BGU
1.267 2.530 2.591 2.1156 4.1122
120 120 125 120 125, 127-28
604
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
CBP 455
101
CIG 3148
374 359-60
CIL 357
ClJ 1.21 1.68 1.202 1.222 1.256 1.462 1.523 1.576 1.690 1.694 1.1404 1.1432 1.1538 12.643a 12.7116 2.445 2.643 2.742 2.749 2.765-66 2.1212-1389 2.1218 2.1221-22 2.1226 2.1228 2.1233 2.1256 2.1269 2.1274 2.1277 2.1308 2.1317 2.1359 2.1363 2.1372-75 2.1385
2.1390 2.1537-38
373 373 373 373 373 373 373,378 365,373 361-62 WI, 105 101 101 359 366 359 360-61 358 356-57 361 364 379-80 379-80 379-80 379 380 380 380-81 380 380 380 380 380 379,380 380 380 375
3.633 3.659 3.707 14.375 14.2112 14.4127 14.4447 14.4624
101 101, 105 101 558 101 558 553 358
CPR 1.244
125
DFSJ 33
101
IAlex
91
100
lDelos 1519-22
100-101
IEph
2212
101
IG 22.1263 22.1275 22.1292 22.1297 22.1301 22.1327 22.1343 22.1369 7.3224 10/2.259-60 10/2.506 11/4.1061 12/1.155
1211.736 12/1.937
1217.58 1219.39
100 99 100 100 100 99-100 100 98-99 99 101 101 100 100 101 101 101 99
605
ANCIENT SOURCES INDEX
IGRR
4.1431
PCairoMasp
357
IKios
22
101
IMagnMai
117
101
IMakedD
920
101
ISmyma
218 720
101 99 379-80
4.265 6.239 6.264-65
PFlor
364 101
1.84 3.315 3.369
364
PGiss
Noy (1993/1995) 52 373
62 218 224 392 489 491 577
373 373 373 373 373 373 373
50-51
4
1.137
125
125 125
PKoin
3.144
125,127-28
PLaur
125 125
125 125 125
PHarr
2.163 2.256 3.1003 7.1948
125 125 121 125 121
POxy
PBerlLeihg
1.23
1.23
PLond
PBerlFrisk
125
PHamb
100
PAmh
2.91
1.56
4.166
OGIS
120
PEdg
101
MAMA
122-24 122-23 129 121 121 129 129 129 122 130
PColZen
38
LSAM
9
59015 59018 59245 59292 59300 59329 59367 59377 59537 59610 54
Leon (1960)
1-100
125
PCairoZen
100
IKnidos
23
1.67104
125, 128
4.707
128,130
606
TEXT AND ARTIFACf
POxy (continued)
4.729 12.1590 14.1631 14.1646 14.1689 14.1692 48.3354
125·26, 129 130 124·25,127·28 125 124·25 125 125
PRyl
4.582 4.583 4.592·93
121 121, 125·27, 129 121
PSI
1.414 6.393 6.554 6.594 13.1338
129 121 121 117,121 l25, l28
PTebt
1.5
125
PVindSal
8
125
SB 4481·82 4486 4774
125 125 125
SEG
29.1188 29.1195 31.1038
99 99 99
StudPal 20.218
125
SUBJECT INDEX
Accommodation: Jews to paganism, 361-62, 365, 367; Christians to paganism, 539 Acmonia, 364, 407 Adramyttium, 79 Aelius Aristides, 538 Afterlife: in Jewish thought, 250-63, 267-68, 444; Christian 264-68. See also funeral banquet Akeldama, 373, 377, 379-84 Alexander Jannaeus, 256, 326, 433 Almsgiving, 65-66, 69, 97,101-104 Altar ofYictory, 528, 539-41 Ambrose, 300, 529, 540-45 Amorgos, 101 Ancyra, 76-77, 80,82 Antandrus, 79 Anti-Judaism, 16,234 Antioch, 45-57, 75, 81,95,213,215, 243,274,355 Antiochus (of Antioch), 355, 358 Antiochus III, 391, 396 Antiochus IV (Epiphanes), 348 Antipas (Herod'sson),158,169-70, 179 Antipater of Tarsus, 232 Antoninus Pius, 392 Aphrahat, 244 Aphrodisias inscription, 196-97,373,383 Apocalypticism, 155,240-41 Apuleius, 514-16, 520, 527, 529-37, 539-42,544-45,551-57,561-64 Aquila and Prisca, 39, 293 Architecture: and Herod, 11, 158-59, 162-63, 344; and worship, 14, 22, 293; early Christian, 40, 103, 289304 (see also house churches);
churches, 21, 36, 290, 292, 299300, 308-18 (see also Church of the Ascension, Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Church of the Nativity); Jewish, 295-97 (see also synagogues, Tyros); domestic, 325-28 Argiza,78 Argyria, 78 Aristotle, 214, 216, 218-19, 232,407, 411,514 Asceticism: and Jesus, 167; Christian, 209-23,231-47; Jewish, 327,32930. See also Essenes Asia Minor, 75, 81-82, 195-98, 217, 357,361,364 Assos,79 A[hens,9~ 10~395,411,529,545
Augustine, 211,300,534,540,544-45 Augustus, 11, 36, 38,151, 234-38, 508, 528 Azanoi, 76-77 Bar Kochba, 256-57,336,469,484,488-89 Benefaction, 65-68, 70-71, 91, 95-98, 100-106, 407. See also friendship, patronage, voluntary associations Beth Anath, 121-22 Beth Shean, 466, 489, 492 Beth She'arim, 249, 377, 379, 489, 493 Bethel (cult sanctuary), 297 Bethlehem, 158-59,200,308-16 Bithynia, 75-76,80, 82, 537 Burials, 100, 102,200,238,257-58,261, 298-99,331,334,361,375-82,384, 405, 491. See also Akeldama, Beth Shean, Beth She'arim, catacombs, cemeteries, ossuaries
608 Cadi (Kadoi), 76·77 Caesarea Maritima, 162,200,373,489 Caesarea Philippi, 169 Catacombs, 36·37, 255,257·60, 263, 279,298,373,493. See also burials Cebren,78 Cemeteries, 298.300, 378. See also burials Cenchreae, 63,67, 70 Church of the Ascension, 308 Church of the Holy Sepulchre, 300 Church of the Nativity, 300, 308·12, 317 Citium,lOO Claudius, 37·38 Claudius Maximus, 527,529,539,542 Colossae,197·98 Constantine, 159, 290, 299, 308,404,508 Constantius, 540·41 Conversion, 52, 212·13, 216, 222, 296, 373,378,382,402-408,410,414, 520 Corinth, 7, 9, 32, 36-37,63 Cotiaeum, 76·77 Council of Gangra, 217, 230 Council of Nicaea, 563 Cross, 6, 176-78, 188, 276-82,309,311 Cynicism, 153-54, 170, 203, 233 Cyrenaica, 382 Cyrene, 363, 373 Dabbura, 492-93 Damascus, 258, 331 Dan (cult sanctuary), 296 Deacon, 24, 63, 67,69 Dead Sea Scrolls (Qumran), 16, 35, 51,94·95,98,106·108,110,199201, 240-41, 250, 253, 272, 403, 414-17,423.24,428,436·37,447, 450-52. See also Essenes Decapolis, 169 Delos, 100,297,390 Derbe,75
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
Diaspora, 8,16,21,35,49,193,195, 199,201,257,293-94,297,325, 337-38,356,377·78,390,392-93, 486-87,491 Dominus Flevit, 376, 378·80, 384 Dura Europos, 199,293,297,302.303, 373,383,491 El-Kanais,360 Elephantine, 297, 362, 391 Eliezer HaQappar, Rabbi, 492·93 En Gedi, 451, 463·65 Ephesus, 7, 75 Epicureans, 412.13, 538·39 Ergasteria, 78 Eschatology, 5, 239-41, 251,291,430, 450,518 Essenes, 35, 50.51, 98, 240, 246, 251, 415,423-52,465 Family, 11, 93, 97, 100, 165-67, 212, 214·15,221,232-34,238,241, 243, 257·58,295.96,328,365,402·403, 406,410,464·66,468,529.30,538; fictive kinship, 96, 167, 172 Friendship, 98·99, 295, 402·17. See also benefaction, patronage, voluntary associations Funeral banquet, 298-300 Gabara,397 Galatia, 46, 62, 74-77,80.83 Galen, 218 Galileans, 113, 117, 121, 141, 150, 159· 72, 202, 255·57, 293, 389-98, 490·92 Galilee, 14, 117, 120-21,201,203,256, 433,443·44,466,474·98 Gallus, 255 Gamla,14, 201, 460, 466 Gargara,79
SUBJECT INDEX
Gender, 5-6, 16, 24,209,214-16,218-21 Gentiles, 39, 45-51, 53, 55, 103, 163, 195-97, 252, 260, 267, 486, 543; and contlict with Jews, 4, 12-13,337 Gerizim, 390-93, 396 Gischala, 397, 443 Gnosticism, 210, 278, 521, 522 Godfearers, 49, 195-97,364 Gorgippia, 361 Gratian, 540, 542 Gregory of Nazianzus, 211 Gregory of Nyssa, 211 Gulf of Symc, 10 1 Hadrian, 358, 462 Herculaneum, 281 Hermetic literature, 517, 521 Herod,3-4, 11-13, 17-18,20,24, L58-63, 171, 177, 184, 200, 202, 256, 325, 338,343-44,348,414,425,427,431, 441,456 Herodium, 159,201,343 Himyarite, 258 Honour, 96-97, 99-100,102-105,166, 168,220,442,544; of gods, 419, 532, 557 House churches, 9, 36, 39, 103, 290-94, 302, 305-307 Household,65,162,166-67,172,214, 216,233,295,407,536,538 Hyrcanus, John, 1,326,390, 393, 446 lamblichus, 518, 521 lasos, 361 Iconium, 75,242 ldumeans, 393, 396 Italy, 366, 373, 463, 508, 540 James (brother of}esus), 45-51, 53-57 Jericho, 162, 201, 340, 344 Jerome, 211, 217, 310, 314
609 Jerusalem, 13, 39, 45-46, 52-53, 91, 94-96, 98, 102, 114, 159, 161-62, 165-66, 169-71, 200-201, 252-53, 256-57,274.276,278,293,296-97, 300,308-309,311,314,326,331, 333,340,372-79.381-83,390-93, 395-98.415,424-25,436.443,461, 463-64.468,483,489-90 Jerusalem church, 13,46,52-53,91, 103 Jesus, 4-8, 12, 14. 17,21-24,39,51-57, 64, 66-69, 75, 103-104, 111, 113-17, 135-38, 141, 144-46, 154, 158-61, 163-91, 202-20.3, 242, 263-66, 276-80, 282-83, 292-95, 300,316,389,443,458,469,513, 544; birth and infancy, 17, 158, 313-14; crucifixion, 115, 176, 17879, 181, 200, 278-83; historical Jesus, 6, 14, 113, 154, 158-59, 169, 295,389,513; and the Law, 51-53, 55, 168-69; and parables, 111-33, 135-54, 165, 171-72; parousia, 242, 265; passion, 8, 26, 158, 176-77, 180, 185, 187-88; resurrection, 8, ll5, 117; sayings, 7, 64; temple incident, 7. 16, 21, 165 Jewish (,:hristians, 38-39, 54, 56-57 Jewish defectors, 354-55 Jewish mysticism, 199, 512, 517-18, 521-22,524 Jezreel Valley, 255-56, 489 Judah bar Illai, Rabbi, 120 Judah ha-Nasi Uudah I), Rabbi, 256-58,267-68,483-85,489,492, 496,498 Judas (disciple of Jesus) , 93, 464 Judas (the Essenc), 424-25, 432 Judas (the Galilean), 116,443 Judas Maccabaeus, 253
610 Judeans, 354-67,389-390,393-98 Julian, 522, 540, 545 Junia, 39 Justin Martyr, 8, 13, 20 Kasr eVAbed, 341-47, 349, 351 Klaros, 198 Law (Torah), 7, 9,12-13,23,41,45-46, 48-57, 118, 120, 163, 166, 168-69, 199,201,259,267,273,416,435, 439-40,465,468,476-77,479.493; festivals, 197, 199,329,397 Lord's Supper, 47, 64 Lucilius Gamala, P., 558 Lucretius, 539 Lystra, 75 Maccabean revolt, 18,333,355 Magi, 311, 511, 514 Magic, 198, 505-11, 513-18, 520-27, 529,534,536,544-45 Marcionism, 38, 242 Marcus Aurelius, 256, 517 Marriage, 17, 167,211-12,214,232-37, 239-46, 335, 434-35, 447-48, 52930,533-34 Masada, 162,201,445,456-70 Meir, Rabbi, 49, 483-84 Melito, 194-95 Menorah, 259-61, 366, 491 Messiah, 117, 253 Mikwaot, 200-201,393 Mishnah, 120, 267, 377-78, 383, 475-77, 479, 481-85, 498. See also rabbinic literature Mithraism, 289, 512-13, 521, 551-52, 554-65 Monteverde, 36 Mount of Olives, 257, 308, 314, 375,76 Mysia, 75-77, 79-80, 82
TEXT AND ARTIFACf
Nazareth, 168-69, 201-202, 255 Nomina sacra, 146,271,276-80,283 North Africa, 365-66. 529, 539 Ocellus, 233 Oropus,359 Orphism, 233 Ossuaries, 200, 372, 375-78, 380-84. See also burials Ostia, 36, 551-52, 563, 565-66 Oxyrhynchus, 124-26, 128 Patronage, 97, 105, 170,407-408. See also benefaction, friendship, voluntary associations Paul, 3- 10, 12-13, 16, 18, 20, 22-24, 36,39-40,45-47,50,53-57,63-64, 68, 71. 74-83, 95, 176, 189, 209, 212-15, 241-45, 249, 263-68, 275, 293,298,469 Peasants, 117, 120, 154, 163, 166, 17l, 234,237 Perea, 395 Pericharaxis, 78 Peter (Cephas), 4, 13, 45-47, 50-57, 274-75, 298 Pharisees, 50-53, 55, 57,167,250,397, 415, 424-25,427, 432, 434, 441, 444.447,450 Philadelphia, 125-26,340 Philippi. 101, 169 Phrygia, 75, 99, 407 Pilate, 177, 179-88, 200 Piraeus, 99-100 Plotinus, 519-21 Polichna, 78 Pontus, 537 Porphyry, 518, 520-21, 544-45, 557, 564 Priene,297 Proselytes, 48, 117-18, 197,357,365, 372-78, 381-85
SUBJECT INDEX
Proto-Luke, 7,16,20,24,63-64,69·70 Pwlemais, 396 Pythagoreanism, 95, 233, 425, 427 Q, 7-8, 16-17,64 Quattro Tempietti, 558, 563, 565 Qumran. See Dead Sea ScroUs Rabbinic guild, 474-75, 481-82, 484, 486,488-89,492-94,497-98 Rabbinic literature, 10, 50-51, 356, 474, 492, 494. See also Mishnah, Talmud Rehob,492,501 Resurrection, 200, 249-55, 260, 262-69. See also Jesus Rome, 81, 116, 147, 162, 183, 200, 231, 233-34, 237, 281, 290, 29293,297-98,308-10,318,373,394, 397, 429, 431-32, 434, 443, 448, 451, 456, 458, 461-62, 464-65, 468,482,508-509,519,527,534, 536-37, 539, 541-42, 544, 552; Christians in, 36-41, 71, 193; Jews in, 11,37-38,40-41,47, 193,355, 373,378-79; synagogues in, 8,11, 21,193 Sadducees, 50,415,424-25,432,447,450 Samaritans, 137, 389-93, 396, 398, 432; in synagogues, 393. See also Gerizim Sanhedrin, 256-57, 267 Sardis, 32, 49, 194-96,297 Scamandros, 78 Sepphoris, 169-71, 201-202,256-57, 397,489 Sette Sfere, 551, 555-58, 562-65 Shechem (cult sanctuary), 296, 392 Sicarii, 443, 464-65,469. See also zealots Sidon, 169,396 Simeon b. Gamaliel I, 443
611 Simeon b. Gamaliel II, 483-84, 489 Simon (of Beth Shean), 466 Simon (the Hasmonean), 255 Simon bar Giora, 383 Smyrna, 99, 356-57, 366, 537-38 Stobi, 105, 297 Stoicism, 217, 232-33, 239, 245,412, 439,468 Symmachus, 527-28, 539-45 Synagogues, 8-12, 14, 16,21,32,36, 40,49,98, 105, 168, 173, 193-97, 199-201,257,260,291,293,297, .302,364,373,374,379, .383, 39.3, 407,489-94,496,499-501 Synaos, 76-77 Syncretism, 197-99,356,359,362,367 Syrian Christianity, 241-42 Talmud, 58,246,267,3.36,475,485. See also rabbinic literature Tel Balatah, 392 Tel e[ Ras, 392 Temple Oerusalem), 7, 11, 13, 16-17, 21, 29, 119, 160, 162-63, 165-66, 169-72, 184, 200-201, 243, 252, 291, 293, 296-97, 302, 326-27, .331-33,336,338,376,395-97,415, 424, 431, 443, 445, 450, 466, 476, 484-85,490-91,498 Temples, 32, 301, 342, 359-60, 364, 519, 532, 558-60, 562, 564-65. See also Gerizim Theodocus, 393 Theodotus inscription, 201 Therapeutae, 20-21, 239-40, 246 Thessalonica, 189 Tiberias, 169-71, 202, 256, 397, 489, 492 Tiberiu:, Alexallder, 355 Tobiads, 347 Tombs. See burials Tosefta, 475, 485-86, 492
612 Trajan, 237, 358, 537 Trastevere, 36-37 Troas, 74-80,82-83 Tyre, 7, 169,340-41,376,381-82,396 Tyros (Wadi Sir), 340-41, 345-48 Valentini an II, 540-43 Venosa,373 Voluntary associations, 21, 96-99, 105, 411, 518. See also benefaction, patronage, friendship Wisdom, 4, 142,211 Women: and asceticism, 209-23. 23132; and children, 231-32, 236, 238, 380; in Judaism, 9-10, 163, 325-38,
TEXT AND ARTIFACT
434-35, 447-48, 451, 461, 464-66, 468-70; and marriage, 235-40, 435, 447-48, 451, 515; imagery, no, 331-32,335; relationships to men, 9, 213,380; roles in church, 6, 24, 63, 69-70, 102, 193, 209-23, 294, 538; roles in society, 166, 533-34 Yodefut, 14,460,467 Yosi, Rabbi, 483-84 Zealots, 437, 456, 458, 460, 464-65, 467 -69. See also sicarii Zena, 376-77, 381-82 Zenon papyri, Ill, 117,121-22,124,347
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9. Developments in Buddhist Thought: Canadian Contributions to Buddhist Studies Edited by Roy C. Amore 1 1979/ iv + 196 pp. 10. The Bodhisattva Doctri1te in Buddhism Edited and Introduced by Leslie S. Kawamura I 1981 / xxii + 274 pp. lOUT OF PR[!\T
11. Political Theology in the Canadian Context Edited by Benjamin G. Smillie / 1982 I xii + 260 pp. 12. Truth and Compassion: Essays on Judaism and Religion in Memory of Rabbi Dr. Solomon Frank Edited by Howard Joseph, Jack N. Lightstone and Michael D. Oppenheim 1983/ vi + 217 pp.
13. Craving and Salvation: A Study in Buddhist Soteriology Bruce Matthews 1 1983 / xiv + 138 pp. lOUT OF PRINT 14. The Moral Mystic James R. Home 1 19831 x + 134 pp. 15. Ignatian Spirituality in a Secular Age Edited by George P. Schner I 19841 viii + 128 pp. lOUT OF PRINT 16. Studies in the Book of Job Edited by Walter E. Aufrecht / 1985/ xii + 76 pp. 17. Christ and Modernity: Christian Self-Understallding in a Technological Age David 1. Hawkin 119851 x + 181 pp. 18. YOu/lg MaJl Shinrall: A Reappraisal of Shillrall 's Life Takamichi Takahatake 1 1987 / x vi + 228 pp. lOUT OF PRINT 19. Modernity and Religion Edited by William Nicholls 1 19871 vi + 191 pp. 20. The Socio.l Uplifters: Presbyterian Progressives and the Social Gospel ill Callada, 1875-1915 Brian J Fraser 1 1988 / x vi + 212 pp. lOUT OF PRINT Available from:
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